Forbidden
by nayahasmyheart
Summary: AU: World War II. Brittany, a distinguished Aryan, is forced to move to Auschwitz, a new concentration camp, where she mostly keeps to herself. But love has a mind of its own when her eyes fall on a miserable, broken prisoner who's being brutally tortured.
1. A Grave Promise

"Heil Hitler."

I walked inside with my chin tucked deep into my white blouse. The heavy wooden door slammed behind me and I raised my gaze cautiously.

I was standing in the corner of a glamorous chamber. Lengthy, velvety curtains, painted with menacing swastikas, draped over the tall windows. Ominous paintings decorated the walls, and the largest, in the far end of the room, was of the Führer. An elongated table was situated in the center of the room, with over a dozen high-backed chairs surrounding it. Four men were murmuring heatedly among themselves until they noticed my presence.

"Welcome, Fräulein Pierce," an aged man in a Nazi army uniform and a faded gray crew cut rose to his feet, followed by the other three men. He motioned for me to sit in a vacant chair at the opposite head of the table.

My heels clicked on the marble floor as I made my way to the makeshift throne. I seated myself and straightened my back properly, as I was taught, while my hands folded neatly in my lap. I was anxious and nervous beyond words, but it was imperative for me to please the officials.

"Behold, gentlemen," began the senior. "The Aryan race at its finest. Beautiful, blonde, blue-eyed, German. Satisfying, isn't she, Richart?" he turned to the man sitting to his left.

The man twisted his neck to me and eyed me judgmentally. His close-cropped, auburn hair shone in the dim sunlight above his cold, bleached cobalt eyes. His thin lips were clasped together over his obtrusively square chin. A hungry look began to slowly dominate his face.

The elderly man's lips raised in a cheerful sneer that was not reflected in his bitter eyes. He turned back to me. "Do you know who I am, Fräulein Pierce?"

"Herr Von Richter," I uttered hesitantly, my eyes fixed on the clenched hands in my lap.

"That's right," I heard his raspy voice reply serenely. "Aldous Von Richter, Oberstgruppenführer, or General, of the National Socialist German Workers' Party. The Nazi Party. Has a ring to it, doesn't it?"

There was a low buzz of accord from the three men. The one named Richart still had his ravenous gaze on me.

"Your father is a fine man, Fräulein Pierce," Herr Von Richter continued. "A true gentleman. It was a pleasant surprise when he so easily consented to give you away."

A traitorous lump formed in my throat as I willed my eyes not to emanate tears. It was still unknown to me why my father had decided to give me away. Did I not serve as a faithful daughter?

"Fräulein Pierce, I'd like you to meet your fiancé, Richart Eberhardt. He's a distinguished Gruppenführer, Major General, of the Nazi army."

My frightened eyes fell on my future husband. He blinked in response. "Hello, Herr Eberhardt."

"Hello, Brittany," his voice was soft yet chilling.

"Why don't you give her the ring, Richart?"

Herr Eberhardt cocked an eyebrow, then reached into the coat of his military uniform and extracted a small black case. He flicked it open with his index finger and slid it to me across the table. It came to a halt about a foot away from me, so I reached an uncertain hand and grasped it gently.

I brought it to my face and examined it carefully. It was a platinum ring with a timid diamond attached to its rigid body. I rolled it delicately in the palm of my hand, then gazed back up at the opposite end of the table.

Herr Von Richter's eyebrows were elevated in expectation. I held the promise between two anxious fingers and slipped it around the fourth digit of my left hand.

"Good, good," the elder nodded his head thoughtfully. "Then it's settled. Fräulein Pierce, or, as you soon will be named, Frau Eberhardt, your fiancé has been appointed First Commandant of a newly operational concentration camp in southern Poland. Auschwitz, one of our most glorious territories. Great things will happen in Auschwitz, I assure you."

I didn't know what a concentration camp was, but the fact that I would be moving to Poland slowly sunk into my mind. Away from my friends, away from my family, away from my life, away from everything I knew. I will be alone in the brutal hands of this harsh man in this secluded camp.

"Your train leaves at eight A.M. sharp tomorrow morning, Fräulein Pierce, so I suggest you return home and pack your belongings."

I stood up abruptly, perhaps too abruptly, and made my way out of the looming room. I was led down a shadowy hallway and back into the entrance hall. My father, hat clenched in his thick hands and beads of sweat shining on his forehead, waited for me by the grand staircase.

"Well?" he demanded rapidly.

I held out my left hand so that the ring would be clearly visible. "Thank the Führer…" he muttered in relief and swept an arm across his moist forehead.

I remained gravely silent as my father drove his BMW down the rough roads. The car slowed down as we reached our modest apartment in the center of Berlin.

"Where have you been? What's happened?" my mother dashed down the stairs to greet us in the lobby of the decrepit building.

"Brittany's to be married to a fine Nazi Major General," my father marched past her and up the stairwell.

"Brittany's…what?" her voice was fragile as her light eyes squinted in torment. She turned on her heels and hurried after him. "You can't give her away like that without telling me!"

"I had no choice," I heard him say from upstairs as I dragged my incredibly heavy feet up step by step.

"What do you mean, you had no choice?" she screeched loudly. "She's eighteen, Christof! Fresh out of secondary school, and you're sending her away forever!"

"She's an Aryan, Gretchen!" he roared. "A property of the state! Herr Von Richter asked for her, and I obliged! There was nothing to be done!"

I walked past them into my room and shut the door. The tears that had been so aching to flow down my face were finally given their solemn wish. I sat on my bed and wept miserably, hopelessly lost and petrified.

The door creaked open and the angel in my life, the shining star that kept me warm in the freezing cold, walked mournfully into the room. My little sister, Anna, curled up next to me as I put my arms around her.

"Will they take me away, too?" she whispered into my shirt.

I gazed down at her blonde hair, striking blue eyes, countless freckles. She was an Aryan, perfection in human form, just like me. She was facing the same cruel fate that I was about to experience.

"No," I lied as I kissed her hair gently. "They will never take you away."

* * *

><p>The living room was grimly hushed as our intimate family felt itself break to incoherent pieces. Two large beige suitcases stood by the door in the first rays of sunlight. Anna's head leaned on my shoulder, her hand desperately gripping my olive-toned dress. Tremors of panic passed through me as I gaped at my home, my childhood, my memories.<p>

A firm knock sounded on our wooden door. My father, his large belly hidden under a striped suit, twisted the doorknob and swiftly opened the door to reveal a stern Herr Eberhardt. I felt Anna's body shiver as she gawked at the ominously tall soldier.

Without speaking a word, Herr Eberhardt grabbed one suitcase in each hand and began to descend the stairs. My father motioned for me to stand up and follow him.

"NO!" Anna locked her arms around me and began to sob hysterically. My father pried her feeble grasp off of me as my mother leaned in for a quick kiss on the cheek.

I stumbled out of the apartment and, without looking back, walked down the stairs into my very own personalized hell.

Herr Eberhardt did not say a word to me during the car ride to the train station. I doubted that he was too shy to speak; he simply did not find me interesting enough to bother.

The train station stood gloomy and elevated in the early hours of the morning. As we walked to the gate, I took notice in the way people would stare at us in awe. A true Aryan couple. We were everything this country stood for.

Our train was proudly nouveau, the latest advancement in technology. We entered a confined space that contained a twin bed and a tiny bathroom.

I situated myself carefully on the bed as the train began to bounce up and down. Herr Eberhardt gazed at me, blinked, and strolled out of the room.

We were on the train for eighteen hours until we reached Kraków. I slept for about four of those hours and spent the remaining fourteen lying in bed, wide-eyed with fright. Herr Eberhardt did not return to the room until the train began to brake noisily.

The Kraków train station proved to be just as drab as the one in Berlin. The reactions of the Polish citizens to our presence, however, were entirely opposite of the ones of our people. They glanced at Herr Eberhardt's uniform with fear and quickly walked in the opposite direction, as if we were touched, infected, by some incurable disease.

We had to wait in the station for three hours until the train to Auschwitz, small, peeling, and ancient, arrived at the gate. My fiancé heaved the suitcases onto the train car and sat down in one of the vacant chairs. I took a seat in the opposite row.

This train ride, which lasted a mere two hours, was spent with quick, apprehensive peeks at a quite indifferent Herr Eberhardt.

I gazed outside of the window behind me. I could see a massive territory occupied by somber structures and surrounded by a great fence in the horizon. As we neared the gates, a sign at the entrance of Auschwitz became clearly visible: "Arbeit Macht Frei." Work sets you free.


	2. A Broken Angel

The train screeched to a somewhat sudden halt and the doors slowly slid open. Herr Eberhardt straightened out his uniform with the palms of his hands, seized the suitcases, and, without a single glance at me, left the creaky beast.

I stood and made my solemn way out of the train. The first thought that struck me as I reached the cool air was that there was this horribly nauseating smell of dead animals. I knew that it wasn't proper to do so, but I really felt like I was about to vomit, so I cupped my hand over my mouth and nose. The stench seeped in through my fingers as I held back a massive gag.

I carefully gazed around me. I was in a minuscule train station within the deadly fence that surrounded the camp. Everything seemed so gray. Gray bricks, gray roofs, gray sky, gray mood. A fancy Mercedes automobile stood gravely within the gloom. Its shiny black doors reflected the aged train behind me. A frightened man in a navy driver's outfit and hat was loading the suitcases into the trunk of the sleek Mercedes with some difficulty. Herr Eberhardt was sitting in the back seat, his face hard and somber.

My hand still protecting my face from the horrendous reek, I walked to the car and hesitantly opened the back door.

Herr Eberhardt snapped his head to me, glared, and came back out of the car. He walked around to the petrified man, who was now just closing the trunk.

"What is your duty?" Herr Eberhardt barked.

The poor man cowered under his glower. "To serve you."

"When a woman approaches the vehicle, you will leave everything you're currently doing and open the door for her," Herr Eberhardt's crazed eyes bore holes into the man. "Do I make myself very clear?"

"Y—yes, Herr," the man truly looked like he wanted to break down and cry.

"Good." Herr Eberhardt leaned back into the car and retook his seat. The man scurried to the door and held it open for me, his fearful eyes on the ground.

I wanted to tell him that it was okay, that it wasn't his fault that he was preoccupied. I wanted to tell him that it wasn't that important and that I can open doors by myself. But one look at Herr Eberhardt told me that if I spoke kindly to the man, I would receive equally cruel punishment.

"Thank you," I said softly so that only he could hear as I craned my neck and sat by Herr Eberhardt.

There were dark curtains over the back windows that prevented me from gazing outside while the man drove the car. I felt myself slightly recline as the vehicle made its way up an elevated hill. Before I knew it, the automobile was slowing down and we came to a stop. The man hurried out of the car and opened the door for us.

I slid across the leather seat and stood on my shaky heels. Before me sat a large, white estate with a baby blue roof and matching curtains in the insides of the windows. It looked so cheerful, so out of place in this ominous misery.

Herr Eberhardt marched toward the house. He turned, gave me his signature blink, and motioned for me to follow him.

My shoes made chafing noises in the gravel as I made my way to the tall front door. A thin woman in a maid's uniform with aging gray hair and generous eyes stood outside the door to greet us. Herr Eberhardt completely ignored her and simply walked into the house. I climbed up three steps to the wooden porch, made sure that Herr Eberhardt was not able to see, and smiled sweetly at the woman. A look of slight surprise washed over her face, but she quickly recovered and returned a wonderfully comforting smile.

I stepped into the house and found myself in a large living room. The first thing to catch my eye was the menacingly ample portrait of the Führer. I was devoted to my country and to our leader, but was it really necessary to have his stern eyes and meticulously linear moustache glare at us from every wall?

The room was occupied by floral couches and a vast crimson carpet. An outsized grand piano sat innocently under an elongated Nazi flag.

I heard the door shut behind me. The maid walked to me, gazed around the room, and gently said, "So what do you think of your new house?"

I shrugged my shoulders uncertainly. "It's okay."

"Come," she put a caring hand on my shoulder, "Chaim has made dinner for you."

She walked me into a grand dining room that contained a lengthy table and about a dozen chairs. On the table were two sets of porcelain plates, crystal wine glasses, and golden silverware.

I took my seat opposite Herr Eberhardt, whose square chin was pointing expectantly toward a door to the left. On cue, a small, balding man hurried out of the door with plates of dishes stacked on his frail arms.

He looked as if had just recently lost a very large amount of weight. His skin sagged over his meatless bones and his dark hair stood in weird places. A white apron wrapped around his slim body and his face, while anxious, was benevolent.

He laid a generous dish of barbeque pork ribs on the table, followed by a side of mashed potatoes and a plate of steamed vegetables.

He quickly began to serve Herr Eberhardt, and then me. I realized that I hadn't eaten in almost a day as the deliciously appetizing aroma percolated my nose.

I risked a threatened glance at Herr Eberhardt. He was already immersed in his meal. I spread out a white cloth napkin over my knees, picked up my knife and fork, and politely began to eat.

The smell of the food did not disappoint. As my pleased stomach filled, I vowed to, when Herr Eberhardt was not around, compliment the man on his gift for cooking.

After we had cleared our plates, the maid appeared to take them off of the table. On her way to the kitchen door, her ankle gave out under her and she tripped, creating a great tumult of leftover food and shattered porcelain.

I quickly stood up and leaned down to her. "Are you okay?"

A chair creaked behind me. "Brittany."

I turned around to meet the face of a bitter and agitated Herr Eberhardt. He stood on his firm legs and beckoned as he left the room.

I looked uncertainly at the maid, and she simply nodded for me to follow him. I straightened and made my way back to the living room.

Herr Eberhardt was waiting for me. "I don't want to see you care for them again."

I gulped and stared down at the thin carpet.

"They're Jews, they don't deserve your pity or your kindness."

I kept my eyes on the ground. There, again, this hate for Jews. Something I never understood.

One of my closest school friends, a girl named Amit, was Jewish. We didn't have the chance to be friends for long, however. The Nuremberg Laws were passed, and she was not allowed to attend our school anymore. Our instructors began to teach us why we were superior to the Jews, why they weren't worthy of the things that we were.

It always confused me. They were people. They had noses, and mouths, and eyes, and ears. They had memories, families, lives. They could feel joy, they could feel sorrow, they could feel love, they could feel hate. They could live, they could die. Why them? What made them so different that they were singled out by an entire continent?

"Understand?"

I nodded my head, even though I really didn't. He walked around me and up the wooden stairs.

I stood in the living room for a little while longer until I decided to return to the dining room. The mess that had been made was long gone, and the maid was cleaning up the table. She gazed up at me as I entered the space.

"It's very kind of you to care, honey," she began. "But it's not worth it. You'll only anger him."

I nodded gravely. "What's your name?"

"Ora," she smiled gently.

"That's a beautiful name," I said quietly.

"Thank you, sweetie. And yours is Brittany, yes?"

"Yes," I replied coyly.

"Come, Brittany. I'll take you up to your room."

She led me up the stairs and down a gloomy hall. We entered a dimly lit room with a spacious bed and a humble nightstand. "Thank you," I smiled at her.

"Mhmm," she turned on her heels and hurried down the steps.

I turned back to the room. My beige suitcases were set in the corner, by the antique closet. I walked to them and began to unpack.

After taking a shower, I returned to the room and snuggled up in my bed. I felt so lost, so alone. A miserable tear swam down my face as I thought about what the future would be like with Herr Eberhardt for a husband.

The door groaned behind me and a ray of light shone into the room. I turned in my bed to see Herr Eberhardt's shadowy figure standing in the doorway.

My body shook fiercely as he neared my bed. He ripped the blanket off of me and quickly and expertly removed my clothes. I let out a small cry as he shoved his strong pelvis into me.

All of the hopes that I had ever had for pleasurable sexual intercourse were thrown out the window. All of the rumors and the hurried whispers in the halls of my secondary school vanished into thin air. It was excruciating and shameful. It was no less than torture.

* * *

><p>When I woke up in the morning, I felt so sick that I had to dash to the bathroom. I had horrible cramps, like the ones I have during my menstrual cycles, except a full world and back more painful.<p>

I washed my face in the bathroom sink and gazed up at myself through the mirror. I was an Aryan. I was supposed to feel beautiful and powerful and superior. But all I felt at this moment was terrible weakness and shame.

I returned to my room and put on a short white slip under a thin blue dress that streamed down to my knees. I carefully walked down the stairs, glancing around for any signs of Herr Eberhardt. He was nowhere to be found, thank the Führer.

I walked into the kitchen to be met by a hard-at-work Chaim. He gazed up fearfully at me from the scrambled eggs that he was cooking. "Fräulein Pierce."

"Please, call me Brittany," I said reassuringly.

Ora walked into the kitchen. "Brittany, darling, you're up! Chaim's been making breakfast for you!"

Chaim gazed at her quizzically, and then back at me. "Oh," Ora noticed his confusion. "Brittany's a real sweetheart, Chaim. There's no need to be afraid of her."

I smiled sweetly at him to back up her statement. He grinned back joyously. "Well," his voice was sarcastically humorous. "Guess there are some nice Aryans after all, huh? You don't think that you're greater than us, then?" he turned to me.

"We're all people," I said simply.

They both looked at me with so much appreciation that I blushed. "God," Ora shook her head. "I wish there were more like you, Brittany."

I smirked down at the ground. It was nice to have them here with me, in the middle of all the chaotic loneliness. I felt like they were my long-lost grandparents.

Chaim served me the scrambled eggs along with some plump sausages and a few strips of bacon.

"Thank you," I said as I looked up at him. "But you don't have to cook pork for me. I know that, because you're Jewish, cooking pork might make you uncomfortable."

Once again, both he and Ora gazed at me incredulously. "Bless you, child," he smiled as he returned to the kitchen.

Ora sat down in front of me. "Now don't let your fiancé catch you being nice to us, alright? We want to keep you."

I grinned and began to eat Chaim's flawless breakfast. After a few moments of silent chewing, a question popped into my head. "What happens down in the camp, Ora?"

She slightly opened her mouth, as if about to speak, and then closed it. She shook her head miserably. "You don't want to know, honey, believe me," she sighed.

If you tell a curious eighteen-year-old girl that she doesn't want to know something, she will obviously go looking for it. So after breakfast, I told Ora that I was going out for a walk and left the comfort of the house.

I strolled to the side of the tall hill and gazed down. The house was situated outside of the fence, but I could see that the only road that led up to it went right through the camp. The buildings inside the jagged fence seemed like orderly barracks in a military base.

I began to walk down the road toward the camp. After around ten minutes, I reached a small gate, guarded by a very young man in a Nazi army uniform.

There was such an innocence, a purity, about him. His rosy cheeks shone under his olive green eyes and chestnut hair. The large weapon that was cradled in his feeble arms looked so out of place.

He looked at me alarmingly. "Fräulein, I really don't think you're supposed to be around here—"

"Please," I pleaded. "Can I just go in? I'm the fiancée of the First Commandant."

He hesitated. "Well…" He bit his lip. "I guess, if you're the fiancée of the First Commandant…" He turned around and used his key to unlock the gate. He slid it open and held out a hand to let me through.

"Thank you," I turned to him. "What's your name?"

"Rolf, Fräulein." His dimples showed as his lips rose into a shy simper, "Rolf Liepold."

"Well, thank you, Rolf Liepold," I smiled and walked through the gate.

The camp seemed deserted as I walked between the looming structures. As I advanced further in, the dreadful smell of death returned to my nose, almost persuading me to turn back. I mustered up my courage and continued to wander through.

I began to hear noises; shouting sounds and crying sounds. I walked around another intimidating building and stopped dead on my tracks.

At least a hundred people were running in a full circle around the area. What made me cringe, however, were their naked, vulnerable bodies. The men had their hands over their private areas as the women held one hand over their breasts and the other over their sexes. About a dozen Nazi soldiers stood around them, occasionally picking out some and sending them to one of two lines.

I hurried to one of the soldiers. "What are you doing?"

The woman looked at me skeptically. Her cruel black eyes twinkled under her matching inky hair. "Sorting them out."

"For what?"

"Those who are capable to work go to one line, and those who aren't go to the other."

An aged woman fell to the ground as the soldier spoke. She was quickly dragged out of the circle and thrown into the rightmost line.

This is a concentration camp? A concentration of people? But why? What did they do?

I couldn't bear the sight anymore, so I turned and continued on. Around the next building, I found a scene almost more horrific than the last.

Hundreds of people in filthy gray garbs stared at me, wide-eyed and utterly petrified. Their heads were completely shaved and their bodies so meatless that you could easily see every bone. As I walked through the masses, they parted to make way for me.

I heard hysterical, high-pitched cries and manly grunts as I made my way to the other side of the square. I looked to my left, where the sounds seemed to be coming from.

Three burly soldiers were beating a frail woman with the butts of their guns. She was curled up on the ground, attempting, and failing, to defend her bare scalp. The uniformed men pushed her back, forcing her legs in front of her. She brought up her head, tormented, and opened her eyes.

Even with the lack of hair and meat, even with tears flowing down her cheeks, she was the most beautiful person that I had ever seen. Maybe it was her dark, desperate eyes. Maybe it was her plump lips, so out of place in all of the boniness. I don't know what it was. But at that moment, I knew. I knew that she was different. I knew that I would do whatever it takes to protect her from the claws of those brutal men. As they pushed up her grimy garment and began to unzip their pants, my voice rang loudly and clearly through the square.

"Leave her alone!"


	3. A Dying Fire

"Leave her alone," I repeated quietly.

It felt like time halted, and I was the only conscious soul in the plaza. The prisoners' faces were stuck in expressions of utter disbelief and the three soldiers were frozen in awkward positions, with hands reaching down to the helpless girl, whose eyes were wide with incredulous gratitude. The world remained trapped in the moment for a few more seconds, and then one of the soldiers, incredibly tall with a pointy chin, straightened his back.

"Fräulein," he nodded his elongated head at me. "This is not a sight for beautiful and superior eyes like yours to see."

"What did she do?" my voice was strained. "Why are you punishing her?"

"She disobeyed a direct order, Fräulein. She was told to slap another inmate and she refused to do so."

"You were going to rape her…" I began slowly, "because she refused to slap her peer?"

"In this camp, any disobedience leads to reasonable consequences."

"Reasonable?" I reiterated softly. I looked down at the tear-soaked face that was peering at me from the ground. Our gazes locked for a moment, and her eyes shone with absolute, overwhelming trust that warmed up my insides and sent a sharp flutter through my stomach. I had to get her out of here, and fast. But how?

"My fiancé sent me to bring him a girl from the camp," I raised my eyes back to the looming soldiers. "She'll do."

They grumbled in response and zipped up their flies. One of them grabbed the girl's feeble arm, so powerfully that I was sure that it would break in half, raised her off of the ground, and shoved her towards me. She stumbled forward and raised her bald head to meet my eyes again. I could see that the faith that she had entrusted in me moments earlier had slightly wavered. I couldn't risk even a reassuring nod, so I simply grabbed her elbow and led her through the masses. My hand sent electric sparks back to my body from where it was touching her surprisingly warm skin.

I could tell that the people around us didn't know what to think. Who is this Aryan, who entered this miserable hellhole and saved one of us only to provide her a different, possibly harsher form of punishment?

I led the girl around the next building, but chose a different path that would not involve us passing through the horrid circle of vulnerably bare bodies. We walked on further until all sounds of humanity were forgotten from our ears. I risked a look to my right.

Her dark eyes glimmered with dangerous curiosity. She was intrigued and petrified at the same time. I could see that she didn't know what to expect, whom to trust. Her life and soul were in my hands. And I was going to care for them as if they were my own.

I didn't let go of her elbow, partly because I was worried that a guard would appear out of nowhere and partly because I didn't want to stop the pleasant electric current that was running up my arm from the physical contact with her. Before we knew it, we were at the back gate, through which my house was clearly visible on top of its humble hill. Rolf turned around at the sounds of our shoes.

"Fräulein!" he exclaimed, eyebrows raised in astonishment as he saw the girl beside me.

"Please let us through, Rolf," I implored anxiously. He nodded his head, and, without saying another word, created a little entryway for us to get through. After taking a few steps on the safe side of the gate, I turned back around to gaze at Rolf. He nodded at me again, and I knew that he would keep this encounter just between us. I smiled gratefully and began to walk up the hill, the girl's frail feet shuffling beside me.

Ora, who was cleaning the front porch, raised her head when she heard the sounds of our arrival. Her eyes widened as they fell on the grimy garment and the girl who occupied it.

"Brittany, what are you doing?" she whispered under her breath.

I walked past her and led the girl into the house and to the grim dining room. "You can sit down, I'll be right back," I let go of her elbow and gave her a reassuring nod. Her eyes scanned the room reflectively. How long had it been since the last time that she was inside a house?

I made my way to the kitchen, where I found Chaim hard at work on lunch. "Chaim."

He gazed up at me from the pan. "Yes?"

"Will lunch be ready soon?"

"Not for another two hours."

I bit my lip and inhaled deeply. "Is there a way that you could make something quick? Just a simple but filling meal, I've got someone here who hasn't eaten in a while."

"Sure, Brittany," his gaze was questioning, but he nevertheless got out a loaf of bread and began to ravage through the large refrigerator.

"Thank you," I walked out of the kitchen and found the girl sitting apprehensively on the edge of her seat. Her thin shoulders were glued to her neck as her arms hugged her jutting ribcage.

"Chaim's going to cook something for you," I said softly as I took a seat in front of her. "I believe that I'm right in thinking that you're hungry."

She nodded, but just barely. Her eyes were so intense; I felt like they could see right into the deepest part of my soul and I wondered if she could read my most hidden thoughts. If she could, she would know that I was marveling at her natural and delicate beauty.

Chaim appeared out of the kitchen door surprisingly quickly, but almost dropped the two dishes in his hands when he saw the girl. His balding head bobbed up and down in disbelief as his eyes darted from me to her and to me again. After a few moments, he recovered from his initial shock and hesitantly served the food to the girl. He shook his head in disbelief as he returned back to the kitchen.

I turned back to the girl. Her eyes were ravishing the appetizing sandwich and array of fruit that were sitting in front of her. She gazed back up at me, incredulity clearly apparent in her eyes. I nodded my head encouragingly.

Her fragile fingers enveloped the sandwich and she took a modest bite out of it. Her eyes closed as she chewed slowly, in awe of the taste of decent food. She swallowed and opened her eyes to gaze deeply into mine. She had this look on her face as if she was trying to figure me out.

I lost myself in her immense beauty. Her full, supple lips were slightly parted above her demure chin, which was perfectly balanced between roundness and sharpness. Her prominent cheekbones sat innocently on either side of her magnificently aligned nose. Black eyebrows and eyelashes enlightened me as to what color her hair would be if it wasn't mercilessly shaved off of her head. But it was her eyes that made me gape longingly at her. They twinkled mournfully and told the long and difficult story of her life. They shone with the days of the past, happy and careless as a child. They glimmered with the despair of the present; so much was lost that will never be regained. They glowed with the hope for the future, that maybe, just maybe, she'll make it out of here alive and grow old with the person she loves. There was this fire behind her passionate eyes, a fire that, in the past, burned brightly, but was now slowly dying away. I found a fervent desire within me to keep that fire burning, to make it blaze so brilliantly that it will light up the whole world with the kindness and honesty of her heart.

Everyone had always told me that it was us, the Aryans, who were the perfect human beings. Every tiny belief in that statement vanished as I sat in the solemn dining room, completely immersed in the harmonious glory of this person that I did not even know the name of.

She broke off the gaze link to lean down and take another bite of her sandwich. I so desperately wanted to wrap my arms around her, to stroke her caramel skin, to kiss her.

To kiss her?

I was taken aback by that thought. Homosexuality was something unheard of and completely against every rule of morality. I had never thought that I would be faced with such a problem.

But now… It was obvious. I wanted her. I needed her. I…loved her?

I was puzzled beyond belief. I had only just met her. I hadn't even heard her speaking voice. How can you so devotedly love a complete stranger?

But she made me feel something that I had never felt before. A warmth and an acceptance deep within. A kind of comfort. It was like I finally found the escape that I had always been looking for, and she came in the form of a dazzling beauty. I had this strange feeling, strange but firm, that we would be together for a long, long time.

She finished her sandwich and looked back up at me. I finally found my voice. "What's your name?" I asked gently.

Her fingers were fidgeting with her foul garb and she tilted her head slightly to the right. "Santana," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

"Santana," I repeated, stretching out every syllable. "What a beautiful name."

A small smile appeared and quickly disappeared from her face as she looked down at the table. Santana. The name fit her well. It had this sultry, mysterious, yet pure sound to it.

Santana began to work on her plate of fruit. I watched as she forked a slice of watermelon and brought it to her mouth. After taking a slow bite and letting the sweet taste spread in her mouth, she gazed back up at me.

I knew that I was staring, and most likely making her feel uncomfortable, but I couldn't help myself. My eyes scanned every visible inch of her body, starving for more.

I decided to break the booming silence. "I'm Brittany."

Her eyes were fixed on me as the tips of her lips lifted into a coy smile. I melted at the sight; when she smiled, her whole face lit up like the sun after a rainy day, emanating a gloriously angelic rainbow.

It was all I could do not to lean across the table and kiss her. "Why are you here?" I tried to distract myself. "In the camp, I mean."

Her eyelids lowered as her long eyelashes somberly pointed to her knees. "I'm Romani," she said quietly.

"Romani?" I furrowed my brow in puzzlement. "What does that mean?"

"I'm what your people call a_ gypsy_," she uttered the last word with such subtle but nevertheless apparent hatred.

"So all of the people in the camp are Romani?" I asked quizzically. Could there be that many Romani people?

"No," her voice was incredibly soft. "The camp is for all 'inferior' races. Romani, homosexuals, disabled people. But mainly Jews."

I was silent as I let the information sink in. "But why?"

She gazed at me thoughtfully, as if I was a new and unknown brand of humanity. I was an Aryan who didn't think that she was superior to others.

"I don't know," she said, just above a whisper.

Deep down, I knew the answer. The Führer wrote in his book, in our bible, _Mein Kampf_, that the "inferior" races need to be pulled out of the earth like unwanted weeds from a spotlessly clean garden.

Santana had finished her plate of fruit and was drinking out of the glass of water that Chaim had placed next to her meal. She gulped it all down, set it gently on the table, and raised her eyes back to me.

"Are you still hungry?" I inquired tenderly.

She shook her head. She paused for a moment, and then murmured, "Thank you."

I stood up from my seat, walked around the table, and held out my hand for her to take. She hesitated, but finally took it and stood on her feet. I led her to the living room, where we sat down on one of the floral couches. She gazed around the room. I felt a shudder pass through her body as her eyes fell on the portrait of the Führer. Her gaze drifted to the glossy grand piano. Her expression turned longing.

"Do you play?" I saw her blink as if lost in the memories of the past. She nodded slowly. "Go ahead," I urged her affectionately. I was eager to see those delicate fingers soar over the heavy keys of the piano.

She raised her eyebrows at me in pleasant surprise. My stomach somersaulted as another smile dominated her face, wide and toothy.

She walked to the majestic instrument, seated herself on the black leather bench, and lifted the cover off of the keys. Her fingers skimmed them and she closed her eyes, molding her fingers into the black and white.

She pressed down on the keys and began to play the most beautiful tune that I had ever heard. Her fingers glided smoothly and easily over the keys, and she leaned her whole body into the notes as she played them. I was fascinated by the way her fingers were able to jump so freely and effortlessly from key to key, emanating such a sad, touching melody.

After about five minutes, which seemed like five wonderful hours, she played the last notes of the piece. She opened her eyes and turned to me, a look of mournful ecstasy on her face.

"Thank you," she said softly.

"It was breathtaking," I gazed at her as her cheeks flushed beautifully and her eyes fell to the ground. "What's the name of the piece?"

"Moonlight Sonata," she ran her fingers over the keys. "By Beethoven."

"Breathtaking," I repeated, still dazed from the moment.

A certain thought suddenly came to my mind. "Your name, it's Spanish. How is it that you speak the language so well?"

Her face turned solemn. She opened her mouth slightly, considering her words. "I was raised in Germany, but my mother was Spanish."

"Was?" I asked quietly.

Tears filled her gorgeously sorrowful eyes. "No…" I mumbled as they began to flow down her sleek cheeks.

I made my way to the piano and sat down on the bench beside her, cradling her feeble body into my strong arms. She sobbed miserably into my chest, and I ran a caring hand over her exposed scalp as the other held her close to me. I wanted to engulf her into my body and keep her curled up safely in there, at day and at night, in warm and in cold, in love and in war, always and forever.


	4. An Unraveling Knot

I rummaged through one of my beige suitcases, looking for a journal. It was small and brown with gold linings and beautifully messy writing on it that told: "Brittany's Journal."

Anna had given me this diary the day before I left for Poland. She told me that whenever times were hard, I could just write to her in it, and she would be able to hear me through the magic of the journal. I knew that she wouldn't really be hearing me, but I felt like I needed to confide in someone, someone who would keep my dangerous and miraculous secret, and what better way to do that than to write in a personal diary?

I moved aside a forgotten light pink blouse and finally found it sitting in the very bottom of the suitcase. I picked it up with gentle fingers and gazed lovingly at my sister's large, uneven writing.

I delicately opened the chocolate-colored journal, and found my sister's writing jumping up at me once again from the first page of the diary.

_Brittany!_

_I knew that you'd open the journal eventually. You're still at home but I really miss you already. I'm afraid that when I get taken away, because I know that I will, I won't be as brave as you are. I hope your fiancé is nice to you and treats you the way that you deserve to be treated. I love you so much, and I'll always think about you, and you're my hero._

_Love,_

_Anna_

A grateful lump formed in my throat and I thanked whoever there was to thank for having such a sister. She was always so mature for her age. Where else can you find an eight-year-old that'll write something so deep and touching?

I thought back to the eight wonderful years that I spent with her. She was born on the day that I turned ten, and was by far the best birthday present that I had ever gotten. She was such a precious baby, always laughing and so full of life. As she grew up, I found myself willingly taking care of her more than both of my parents together. I would go with her to the park and push her swing and play with her in the sand. She even told me once, when we were walking back home, hand in hand, that I was her real Mami.

It was hard to be so far away from her, with no means of communication. Letters were not an option; it was too far away and we were engaged in a war. The German telephone lines didn't reach as far as Poland, and I didn't know if we even had a telephone in the house.

I sighed deeply and flipped the page. I picked up a sharp pencil that was sitting on my nightstand, held it above the journal, and pondered how to express my feelings, which were so abstract and overwhelming, through writing.

_Dear Anna,_

_I want you to know that I'm okay. My fiancé, Herr Eberhardt, is cold and distant, but it's okay because there are two magnificent servants who are living with us, Ora and Chaim. They're Jewish, and Herr Eberhardt told me not to care for them, but I actually care for them a lot more than I do for him. But what I really wanted to tell you about is the girl in the camp. I went down to the concentration camp today and saw some horrible things, but I won't tell you about that. I was just very confused about everything, and I kept wondering what those poor people did to deserve such a fate. I walked through the camp when I saw her. She was being beaten by some Nazi soldiers, and they were about to do something horrific to her, but I stopped them. I took her back up to the house with me, fed her, and watched her as she played the piano. _

_I'm trying to think about how to put my feelings toward her into words. When I'm near her, it's like my heart swells to such a size that it becomes hard for me to breathe. It's like there's this aching knot in my stomach that can only be unraveled by her love. When she cried, it felt like my whole world was collapsing, like pieces of the sky were falling down to the earth with every tear that slid down her face. And when I had to take her back because I was afraid that Herr Eberhardt would show up, it felt like the atmosphere was closing in on me. I left her in the cruel hands of the guards, and as I walked back, I glanced behind me one last time so that her face would be etched into my memory. She looked so puzzled, but also strangely in peace. Like she's been looking for an answer to some question for a really long time, and she has finally found it. As I traveled back through the camp, I vowed to myself that I would return to her._

_I love her. I love her with every fiber of my being, every cell in my body, every thought in my mind. I want to experience her with every one of my five senses; I want to see her gorgeous face, smell her delicate fragrance, hear her smooth voice, feel her glowing skin, taste her sweet tongue. Love at first sight exists, Anna. It really does._

_Love,_

_Brittany_

I put down my pencil as a tranquil feeling settled in my stomach. I felt like a huge weight was lifted off of my back. Writing down my feelings really helped me realize how true and concrete they really were.

Ora suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Brittany, darling, dinner's ready."

I nodded at her and placed the journal in the drawer of my nightstand. I stood on my feet and followed her down the wooden staircase.

Herr Eberhardt had still not returned from wherever he was at, so Chaim served me a dinner for one, composed of an appetizing garden salad and a delicious-looking plate of fettuccine alfredo. I lifted my fork and poked at the food.

What is Santana eating at this moment? Or is she not eating at all? How often do they feed her? What kind of food do they give her?

By the looks of it, she wasn't fed very often or very much. She was probably fed the minimum amount of food that her body needed to remain alive. All of that just because she's a gypsy?

It didn't make any sense to me. She was better than any Aryan that I had ever met. More beautiful, kinder, closer to perfection. How can Nazi Germany just decide who's superior and who's inferior? What led them to decide to single out several races like that? Take them to concentration camps, make them starve, and who knows what else. They were human. Just like me, just like Herr Eberhardt, just like Hitler. Human.

Ora sat down before me. "What are you thinking about, honey?"

I raised my gaze to her. I wanted to tell her about Santana, about my feelings toward her. I knew that she would always keep it a secret between us.

"Do you want to tell me about the girl?" she offered, as if she could read my mind.

"I love her," I said simply as I set my fork down on the table.

"You love her?" Ora sighed hopelessly as her eyes scanned me. "Brittany, such a love is impossible. You're an Aryan, she's a prisoner in Auschwitz. Not to mention the fact that you're both women. It's forbidden, Brittany. You'll be killed if you go through with it," she said softly. When she noticed that I wasn't convinced, she added, "She'll be killed."

I dropped my eyes to the table and chewed on my bottom lip. What was more important to me? Having a forbidden relationship with Santana or keeping her safe? Or as safe as you can be in a concentration camp.

That was a question I didn't know the answer to. My mind was torn. One part of it, the logical side, told me to never go back to the camp, never see her again because she would be safer that way. But the other part, the emotional side, yearned for another, and many other encounters with her.

By the time I finished dinner, however, my mind was made up. Her safety was more important to me than my satisfaction.

I thanked Chaim for the exquisite food and made my way up the stairs once again. I took a quick shower and snuggled up under my blankets, solemnly wishing that Herr Eberhardt wouldn't come back at all. I lay on my side and imagined Santana lying beside me. Another grave feeling of guilt overcame me as I realized that Santana is probably freezing right now as she's trying to fall asleep. I wondered if she was thinking about me the way that I was thinking about her.

I heard the front door open and slam from downstairs. Heavy boots ascended the stairs and made their way down the hall to my room. I closed my eyes. Maybe if he thought that I was asleep, he'd leave me alone.

The door opened and a streak of light washed my eyelids. The floorboards creaked under Herr Eberhardt's heavy feet as he walked to my bed. "Brittany."

I opened my eyes fearfully. His hard face was glaring down at me from above, furious that I had the nerve to go to sleep without first giving him satisfaction. He threw the blanket off of me, shoved up my nightgown, and pulled down my underwear.

He pushed down his pants and shoved his pelvis into me. As I lay there, clenching my teeth and squinting my eyes to stop myself from letting out sounds of misery, I longed to feel loved. I vowed, once again and against my previous decision, that I would bring Santana back with me to the house tomorrow morning.

* * *

><p>The air was cool on my face as I made my way down the steep hill. Herr Eberhardt was gone this morning as well, to my great relief. Last night, after he had sex with me, he pulled up his pants and left the room, just like that. I was nothing more than a prostitute to him.<p>

Rolf's eyes were just as astonished as before when he saw me approach his gate. "Fräulein…" he mumbled.

Without asking any questions, he unlocked the gate and slid it open to let me through. I thanked him and began to pace purposefully across the camp. It seemed deserted in the early morning.

I walked straight to the building that Santana had led me to the day before. She said that this was the building in which she resided. It was minuscule, ashen, and utterly depressing.

I swung open the heavy front door. About sixty shaved heads of women of all ages turned to me. Booming silence fell in the room.

I looked around. There were beds lined up on the walls and up to the ceiling, in columns of threes. I gazed at the beds and then looked back at the women. There was no way that this many people were using so few beds.

A young woman with pale skin and large green eyes turned and leaned down to one of the beds. "Santana."

My love's stunning face appeared from the depths of the bed. Her mouth parted and her eyes widened in astonishment. She crawled out and stood on her shaky feet. I nodded at her encouragingly.

She began to make her way to me when the door creaked open behind me. I turned on my heels to find myself face to face with the coal-black eyes of the soldier that I had talked to the day before.

"Can I help you?" she asked vindictively.

"I—um," I stuttered. "My fiancé sent me to get a girl from the camp. Her," I pointed a petrified finger at Santana, who was frozen in her place.

"You're not enough for him, are you?" Her red lips parted to reveal a set of yellowing teeth. She chuckled cruelly. "Well, then, you heard her," she shot callously at Santana. I had a sudden urge to reach out my hands and strangle her to death. "Go be his little whore."

Santana kept her eyes plastered to the ground as she walked to me. I led her out of the building, and although I didn't look back, I could feel the soldier's malicious eyes shooting daggers at my back.

Rolf didn't seem as surprised this time when I came back with Santana. He quickly shifted open the gate and let us through.

As we walked up the hill, a terrible and horrifying thought struck me. What if she doesn't love me back? The mere thought almost made me double over and fall to the ground.

We walked into the house, past Ora, who sighed deeply, and into the grand living room. I led her to the couch and we sat down side by side.

"Chaim's making us breakfast," I said softly as I looked sideways at her dazzling face. She nodded coyly and a small smile appeared on her face.

I held back the desire to pull her into me and settled for asking, "So you grew up in Germany?"

She gazed up at me. "Yes," she said delicately. "I was born there, and I lived there until I was nine years old. Then my mamá decided to try her business somewhere else. We traveled all over Europe, from Germany to Holland to Belgium to France. It was when we made it to Austria, last year, when I was seventeen, that I finally convinced her to return to Germany. And once there, it was discovered that we were Romani, and we were put on a cattle train to Auschwitz."

"And your father?" I asked curiously.

"I've never met him. When times were hard, when there was a lack of money…my mamá would run a business on the side. She wasn't proud of it, but she needed money for food. My father was one of the men who paid her for sex."

It made sense. She had the looks of a mixed race child. Half Spanish, half German.

"What about you?" she inquired softly.

"Me? I grew up in Berlin with my mother, father, and little sister."

"You have a little sister?" Santana's face lit up like a candle that flickered to life. "How old is she?"

"She's eight," I bit my lip. Writing to her in a journal was one thing, but talking about her was too emotionally difficult for me. I took in a shaky breath and said, "I miss her so much."

I looked down at my knees and tried to stop the traitorous tears from swimming down my face. A hesitant hand reached out to mine, and I let myself fall into Santana's chest.

The situation mirrored the one we were in yesterday. Her arms enveloped me and her hand stroked my hair. But it was when she placed a most gentle kiss on my head that the knot in my stomach finally began to unravel.


	5. Help Me Catch the Flickering Light

I caressed Brittany's hair, a feeling of utter bafflement dominating my thoughts. Her helpless tears dampened my filthy garment. I just wanted her to stop crying, so I lightly kissed the top of her head. As soon as I had done so, however, I cursed myself for daring to kiss an Aryan. My recklessness will get me killed.

There are no words to describe the puzzlement that conquered my mind. The same questions kept appearing over and over again—what's happening? Who is she? What does she want with me? Why should I trust her?

I kept having this sour feeling in my gut that this was all some sick game. That she was pretending, and that I walked right into her trap. I kept expecting to be ambushed, to be taken outside and mercilessly shot in the head. This was the most horrible, largest scale war since the Great War. This was Nazi Germany. This was Auschwitz. Aryans didn't make friends with _gypsies_. I shuddered at the disgusting word.

And yet…I wanted to trust her. I wanted this to be real. There was something about her, something that intrigued me and made my insides squirm with excitement. I was so curious to find out more about her.

And if this was real, if this was not all just some game, then why me? What feeling, deep within her, brought on this ultimate trust? What brought on that look of sheer horror when she saw me being beaten by those ruthless soldiers? What brought on these passionate hands that were so desperately clinging to my back?

And how did this all happen so quickly? When she hugged me yesterday, when she held me so close to her while I cried, I faltered. I had just met her a few hours earlier, and yet she acted like we had known each other our whole lives. Like we were long-lost friends, like we cared for each other in our youth and were just finishing what was left undone. It sent me into such a spiral of confusion that I was not able to sleep later that night. I kept wondering if she would come back again. Wondering, and hoping that she would.

Hoping?

Why? Why was I hoping that she would return for me? My instinct would answer the obvious—I wanted to live. I didn't want to die in this rotten slaughterhouse. I yearned so desperately to be free again. But something else told me that this reason was not the answer to my question.

I had this other feeling, but it was so difficult to interpret. It was like there was this flickering light shining on the wall. You want to catch it in your hands so that you could examine it thoroughly and understand the meaning behind every photon. But as soon as you near it, it dashes away from you. So you run and run along that wall, jumping up and down in attempt to catch it, but you can never get close enough. It's like that feeling when something is on the tip of your tongue, but you just can't for the life of you remember what it is. And you tell yourself that you will not relent until you catch the light, until you remember the word, until you comprehend the feeling.

Brittany sniffed from underneath me and slowly lifted up her head. Her eyes were swollen and her cheeks crimson with sorrow. Her crystalline irises glowed in the dim light of the living room as she gazed at me.

Her face was very close to mine, and I became extremely uncomfortable when she didn't take her hands off of my back. She just froze in place, entranced by something that she evidently saw in my face but that was not apparent to me. I gulped anxiously.

At last, she pulled back and returned her hands to her lap, her facial expression somewhat guilty. She gently cleared her throat. "Anna's the light of my life. The one thing that's kept me going. She always made everything better."

I felt my mouth part as a sharp shudder passed through my body. My heart clenched in agony.

Brittany seemed to notice that something was amiss. "Do you have any siblings?"

I lowered my gaze and licked my chapped lips. "I…one. I had one. A little brother."

"What was his name?" she inquired softly.

"Ángel. Because he was an angel." I sighed deeply.

Brittany was quiet for a moment. Then she opened her mouth, slightly hesitated, and tenderly asked, "What happened?"

"He…" I wavered. "He had this disease. I don't know what it was because we never had enough money to get him examined by a doctor. He just…didn't grow. At two, he still looked like a baby. At seven, he had only just grown into a toddler. And at ten, when he…" I trailed off. "He looked like he was around five years old. His body grew unnaturally slowly, but his mind matured normally with his age. He was a ten-year-old trapped in a five-year-old's body. This disease, whatever it was, made him very vulnerable to other diseases, and he…well, one day, he started having this cough. This horrible cough, that sounded like thunder, or like boulders rolling down a hill. And then he began to cough up blood. At first it was just a little bit, but then it became more and more, to the point that I wondered if he even had any left in his body. And then, one day, he just…didn't wake up."

Brittany inched her hand toward mine and lightly grasped onto it. I looked down at her white skin as it melted into my dark caramel. That feeling of complete bewilderment mystified me again.

"Were you close to him?"

"Very. He was my best friend. We may have been six years apart, but he was the one person I could always tell anything to. He was so mature for his age, and sometimes it felt like he was the big sibling. I took care of him physically and he took care of me mentally. We were inseparable." I raised my gaze back up to her. Her mouth was parted and her eyes dazed. I wanted so badly to be inside her mind, to hear the thoughts behind the facial expressions.

"Girls," the cook's voice made us both jump. Brittany ripped her gaze off of me and turned her head to him. "Breakfast is ready." His eyes fell on our hands, which were still clasped together. I quickly broke the hold.

We entered the dining room to find two generous plates that were piled up with scrambled eggs and potatoes placed on the table, accompanied by two full glasses of orange juice. My mouth instantly began to salivate.

I sat across the table from Brittany and looked at her in humble expectation. She nodded at me and I lifted up my knife and fork and began to eat.

It tasted like something from another world. I couldn't remember the last time that I had eggs, or any protein for that matter. I attempted to pace myself, but I wanted to just inhale the food.

I finished my plate very quickly, and my stomach twisted unpleasantly. It wasn't used to receiving this type of food, and definitely not this much of it.

I raised my gaze to Brittany to find that she hadn't touched her plate, and was just lost in thought as her eyes scanned me. I bit my lip uncomfortably.

She gently shoved her plate toward me. "You aren't going to eat?" I found myself saying.

She shook her head without taking her eyes off of me. "I can eat whenever I want. I'd rather have you eat it while you're here."

I blinked incredulously and hesitantly pulled the plate to replace my empty one. As I ate, I kept peeking up at her, only to find her azure eyes boring holes into me.

I couldn't read her expression. Or at least I didn't think that I could. It seemed like…but it couldn't be. How could it be?

I took more time on this plate, my stomach complaining at the irrational amount of food that I was presenting it. But I kept eating nonetheless. I didn't know when the next time that I could indulge in such a meal would be.

I gulped down the orange juice, a little too quickly. Its sourness burned my delicate throat.

Once I was finished, Brittany stood on her legs and I followed. She led me back to the living room, and my gaze fell on the gorgeous grand piano.

"Go ahead," she said softly. I turned to her. Every act of kindness seemed so surreal, so out of place.

She made her way to the couch and looked at me expectantly. I slid onto the leather bench and gently lifted the cover off of the brilliant keys.

I knew what piece I wanted to play, but it was dangerous. I took a big risk playing Beethoven yesterday; it was against the law for the inferior races to play music by German composers.

But Beethoven was my favorite composer. His music moved me in the way no other composer could. There was so much feeling behind it, so much meaning. So much anger and hatred and love and longing.

I twisted my neck to Brittany. "Is it okay if I play Beethoven?" I said just above a hush.

"Of course," she furrowed her brow. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Well, it's against the law for the inferior races to play music written by German composers."

Brittany looked dumbfounded. She shook her head incredulously. "I just don't understand…" she trailed off. "But, please, play whatever you like."

I flashed her a grateful smile and turned back to the piano. I breathed in deeply and closed my eyes as my fingers rested on the familiar keys.

I began to play the first optimistic notes of Beethoven's Sonata No. 10, _Spring_. I let myself get carried away by the exquisite feeling, the comforting sound, the painful memories.

I had been taught how to play the piano since I was five and every year since until we moved back to Germany. It was the one thing that my mamá wanted me to be good at. Every time we'd move, she would find a new teacher so that I would continue to learn. One of Ángel's favorite pastimes was to accompany me to my lessons and listen to me play. He said that my playing sounded like the voice of Dios.

Ángel had a peculiar way of thinking. He believed that he was connected to God. That he could communicate with Him, ask Him questions, and retrieve answers. And it was hard not to believe him when you looked at his overwhelming purity.

He wasn't supposed to live past birth. He was born two months earlier than his due date, and we thought that he was a stillborn at first. Then, to our immense relief, he cried when the umbilical cord was cut. It was like he just came to life. Like someone leaned down from heaven and blessed him with a second chance. He was so very small; he had barely developed. He wasn't supposed to live.

But he did. And when he opened his eyes for the first time, we saw an angel. Such immaculacy, such sanctity. So we named him after what he was, an Ángel. My mother would always say that he was "un regalo de Dios." A gift from God. A borrowed angel.

_Spring_ was one of his favorite pieces. He said that it reflected his thoughts, his hopefulness for the future. His pointless and naïve hopefulness.

I swayed my whole body to the piece, so immersed in the notes and in my feelings that tears began to cascade down my cheeks. How was it fair that he died at such a young age when people like Hitler were allowed to grow into adulthood? How was it fair that millions of people were deemed inferior and were taken to be slaughtered like worthless animals in concentration camps? Where was this God that Ángel always spoke of? Was He nonexistent, or was He just turning His head in the opposite direction? Or did He think that we deserved this?

I played the last soft notes of the piece and inhaled deeply as my eyelids slowly retracted. I turned a shy gaze to Brittany.

It seemed like she had also been going through a rough stream of thoughts. Tears glistened on her face, her jaw clenched and her eyes passionate. She looked like she was fighting off an overpowering desire to do something. To do what, though?

Someone cleared her throat behind me. Both Brittany and I apprehensively snapped our heads to find that the maid had been standing there, watching and listening.

"You play beautifully," she smiled warmly at me. I nodded in thanks. "Brittany, darling, your fiancé will be back in around an hour or two."

Brittany blinked hurriedly and gazed at me regretfully. I gently brought down the cover over the keys and lifted myself off of the bench. She led me out of the house, down the hill that was so full of hope, through the gate with the strangely kind young soldier. We didn't speak a word to each other, but there was an intense exchange of feelings as we walked side by side.

When we arrived at the building in which I resided, Brittany uneasily looked around, but there was no one in sight. She grasped my hand and placed a warm kiss on my cheek. Then she turned around and quickly disappeared behind the closest building, leaving me staring in bewilderment after her. She kissed me. She _kissed _me. I had just gotten a kiss from an Aryan.

I shook my head in confusion and turned to open the heavy door. Inside, the women were all about, quietly conversing with one another. I walked to my bed to find Simka waiting for me.

She had this look of doubtfulness mixed with confusion in her large green eyes and her arms were crossed over her protruding ribcage. I averted my eyes and leaned on the hard edge of the second bed from the top.

"Who is she?" Simka inquired in awed bafflement.

"The Commandant's fiancée."

"And what does she want with you? Because from that look in her eyes, I know that she wasn't really taking you to the First Commandant."

I kept my eyes to the grimy floor. "I don't know."

I saw Simka shrug in my peripheral. She jumped up into her bed and turned to me. I gazed back at her and she flashed me her famous mischievous smile.

Simka was what you could call my best friend at the camp. We watched each other's backs. We made sacrifices for each other and shared our darkest secrets.

"Girls," a middle-aged woman named Tzipporah made a gathering gesture. "We have roll call later today in the evening, so let's light the Shabbat candles right now."

I stood back as all of the Jewish women, Simka included, made their way toward the front of the space. The women who were able to get candles and matches in the black market stood forward. They lit their candles, and all of the women, as a whole, made a circling gesture twice in the air before covering their eyes with their hands.

"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha'olam, asher keedeshanu be'meetzvotav, ve'tzeevanu lehadlik neir shel Shabbat. Amen."

The Jewish women kept their hands on their faces, and hurried mumbles rose from the crowd. They were praying for their loved and lost ones.

I admired them for their faith. I felt like I had no faith left, in anything. My faith died with my little brother.

After performing our daily tasks and being served extremely watery soup and tiny pieces of stale bread that did nothing to assuage our hunger, we were allowed to return to our residential buildings. I lay in the unpleasantly firm bed alongside the two women who shared it with me, facing the wall. As I drifted off to sleep, Brittany's face slipped into my thoughts, and I lost consciousness with a feeling of yearned-for safety.

And in the morning, when the door to our building opened to reveal her in a long white dress with violet flower print, when she smiled so adoringly and trustingly at me, that's when I finally felt myself inch a little bit closer to the flickering light.

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Arbeit Macht Frei" – Work sets you free, a sign that was presented at the entrance to Auschwitz.

"Frau" – Mrs., a title for married women.

"Fräulein" – Miss, a title for unmarried women.

"Führer" – Leader, a term used to describe Adolf Hitler.

"Gruppenführer" – Major General, rank in the Nazi SS.

"Heil Hitler" – Used as a greeting and a presentation of faith in the Nazi regime and in Adolf Hitler.

"Herr" – Mister, a title for men.

"Mami" – Mommy.

"_Mein Kampf_" – _My Struggle_, a book written by Adolf Hitler.

"Oberstgruppenführer" – General, rank in the Nazi SS.

_Spanish_

"Dios" – God.

"Un regalo de Dios" – A gift from God.

_Hebrew_

"Baruch ata Adonai, Eloheinu melech ha'olam, asher keedeshanu be'meetzvotav, ve'tzeevanu lehadlik neir shel Shabbat. Amen." – Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to light the Shabbat candles. Amen. (In Judaism, women light Shabbat candles on Friday nights, typically eighteen minutes before sunset.)

"Shabbat" – Sabbath, the seventh day of the week.


	6. A Glass Cube

Four corners, four walls, and just a little naïve and insignificant me in the middle. This is the glass cube in which I live. I can leave my glass cube whenever I want to, but it always feels best to hide in here.

You might think that it would feel incarcerating, confining, to sit in a glass cube by yourself all day. But it's not. It feels rejuvenating with a pinch of relief. When you sit inside the glass cube, you can watch everything that's happening around you without being personally affected. You watch as crimson-faced Anger and teary-eyed Misery try to break through your glass cube, but it's sturdy and it keeps you safe. You watch as rancorous Anguish and dooming Despondency lean their heads together, whispering heatedly while sending threatening glances at you, scheming and devising a way to lure you out of your glass cube. But you simply smile at them and shake your head, because you're smarter than that.

And when you do leave your glass cube, when Anger and Misery and Anguish and Despondency overpower you, when you're lying under a man with whom you're destined to spend the rest of your life, when you bite your lip until it bleeds to keep from crying out, when all you want is for him to stop, just _stop_, then you can simply crawl back into your glass cube and watch the scene as if you're someone else. You can sympathize with yourself as an outsider, you can turn to the nearest friendly gossip, put your hand over your heart, shake your head regretfully, and say, "Such a shame. She really was a fine girl." Because you're in an impenetrable glass cube.

You can invite people into your glass cube. You can invite unexpected Joy and welcomed Safety and gleaming Hope and captivating Love to sit and share with you their deepest secrets. Or you can invite a girl, a breathtakingly beautiful girl, with supple lips and eyes as dark and mysterious as the bottomless ocean, who carries all of these longed-for friends in her fragile arms. And when you sit there, gazing intently into those comforting eyes, leaning in to kiss those delicate lips, that's when you know that everything will be okay.

* * *

><p>The scene shifts, all meat and fat are brutally sucked from my body, my hair is ripped out of my scalp, and my glass cube morphs into Auschwitz. I'm a prisoner in one of the filthy garbs, and I'm sitting all by myself in the middle of the square in which Santana was beaten. The structures around me are cast under a gargantuan shadow, and the sky above me is bloody rouge. It's unnaturally quiescent; it feels like the universe is frozen in time. There are ashes flying carelessly in the air, and my cough rings loudly through the emptiness.<p>

I begin to hear sounds. Thousands of feet perfectly synchronized in a march. There is a faint voice calling out orders. As the sounds become louder, I can make out what the voice is saying.

"Left. Left. Left, right, left. Left. Left. Left, right, left."

It seems like the voice and the feet are just around the corner now. The pounding boots boom throughout the square. As they walk around the nearest building, I want to leap up to my feet and make an escape, but I can't move my body.

"Left. Left. Left, right, left. Left. Left. Left, right, left."

An entire army of Nazi soldiers appears before me. Their aligned legs rise up and down in organized X shapes. Their burly arms clutch onto the ominous weapons that rest on their shoulders. But it's their faces that capture my attention.

Their faces, or lack of faces, to be more precise, are completely blank. No nose, no lips, no eyes, no ears. Simply stretches of skin under finely-trimmed crew cuts. The owner of the commanding voice is the inky-haired woman who called my Santana a whore. Her malicious eyes reflect the redness of the sky.

"Start the fire," she instructs as her head turns to me. Her red lips curl into a cruel sneer.

A faceless soldier quickly strikes a match and throws it to the ground. A looming fire instantly blazes brightly, sending unbearable waves of heat at me. I gaze back up at the woman. Her vindictive eyes challenge me. "Bring out the whore."

The feeble body of my one true love is shoved out of the mass of menacing soldiers. She hugs her frail arms around her jutting ribs and glances down at me. Her face reflects every fear that is boiling up inside of me. "Brittany, please, help me…"

I fight and fight against the force that's keeping me still. I squint my eyes in concentration, attempting to will my body to move. But it's no use. I'm helpless as I gaze back up at Santana.

Tears roll down her cheeks as she sobs miserably. The Nazi woman shoves her a little toward the fire and lets out a heartless laugh. "Please…" I beg.

The woman's laugh fills with insane excitement. She glances at me one last time, and then pushes Santana right into the fire. My screaming voice is lost in the joyous roars of the faceless soldiers, and the fire proceeds to engulf me into its merciless arms. All that I see is red, red, red, and then nothing.

* * *

><p>"Brittany… Brittany."<p>

I bolted upright in my bed, panting fearfully as I realized that it was all just a nightmare. Cold sweat glistened on my skin. I turned my head to see Ora leaning over me with her arm outstretched to my shoulder, which she had been shaking. Her expression was worried in the dim early morning light. "You've had a nightmare. I'm sorry to wake you so early, but we've got to take you to Kraków for your fitting."

"My fitting?" I cracked my neck to release the tension from the dream.

"For your wedding dress."

I gazed up at her in bewilderment. "My wedding dress? Already?"

She shrugged disapprovingly in response and urged me to stand up. I made my way to the shower, yearning to wash off the stickiness and the fear.

I reflected back on the dream as I stood under the cool water. The fire, the camp, the faceless soldiers… It had to have some meaning behind it.

The drive to Kraków lasted about three hours, in which Ora told me all about the particular shop that we were going to and its fame throughout the decades. It was supposedly the most luxurious and high-class wedding dress store in the country.

The driver dropped us off directly in front of the shop. As I slid across the seat and made my way out of the car, I glanced up at the grand building that was sitting before me.

It seemed to be modeled after ancient Greek structures. Its tall, white marble columns stood magnificently before its large, glossy display windows, which presented countless wedding dresses in all shapes and sizes. I gazed up at the sign, which I could not understand due to the fact that it was written in Polish. It read, "H i F: Ostateczny Ślub."

My head snapped from side to side as we walked through the store, my girly desire to try on dresses overpowering the grave meaning behind trying on these wedding garments.

"Your fiancé has already picked a dress for you, dear," Ora stated softly. I sighed and pouted in disappointment.

A tall woman with palpable cheekbones and an elongated chin appeared by our side. She began to chatter in Polish, and I turned to Ora in question. Ora conversed with her for a few moments, occasionally gesturing at me. The woman nodded her head in comprehension. At last, she gazed at me. "Come," she said with a very thick Polish accent. "We will get you fitted."

She led me to a back room, where three other women waited politely. When I walked in, they all sighed in amazement and began to babble cheerfully. They pulled me up onto a wooden stool and began to strip me of my clothes. Before I knew it, I was in the intended wedding dress, being poked and prodded by the excited women.

I tried to perceive the wedding dress from this angle, but it was difficult. It seemed very conservative. Its long bleached sleeves wrapped around my wrists and it had a lace turtleneck top. It reached down to completely cover my feet.

I glanced around the room at the different dresses that were lying about. There was one on a beige manikin that I particularly liked. It was simple. Thin, sleek satin that reached the calves with short sleeves that ruffled around the manikin's upper arms. I tried to imagine how it would look on me. Then I imagined how it would look on Santana.

I saw her before me, her hair full and her mouth widened in a heart-stopping smile. She held a violet bouquet in her right hand while her left stretched out to me, beckoning me forward. I imagined how I would walk down the aisle with her, how we would say our vows and exchange rings and kiss passionately as if it was our last.

It was an odd image, two women being wedded to each other. It was something foreign, something impossible. It was odd, yes, but also so very right.

At last, I was allowed to look at myself in the mirror. Colorful pins stuck out of the dress where the women had marked it. The dress fitted nicely around me, but it wasn't anything special. I glanced up at my face. Soulless and downcast.

I wished that I could live in another world. Somewhere peaceful, someplace that lacks war and hate and revenge. Someplace where it would be okay for me to love Santana. Someplace where we would be perceived as equals. Someplace that allowed our forbidden love. Someplace where Santana would love me back.

I wasn't sure that she did. She seemed somewhat distant, somewhat apprehensive. But, to be honest, I couldn't expect anything else of her. She wasn't used to being treated the way that I treated her by an Aryan. It wasn't her fault that I fell in love so quickly, so passionately, so ultimately.

But it wasn't my fault, either. It wasn't my fault that my heart leaped into my throat every time we made physical contact. It wasn't my fault that I melted with overwhelming feelings every time she smiled. It wasn't my fault that I had the desire to hold her close to me, to envelop her with my love, to kiss her. It wasn't my fault that we were born into a cruel world where one race could demean and shame another, concentrate it in camps and treat it viciously.

And what really happened down in the camp? The people who were deemed unfit, where were they sent? Were they sent back home while the stronger ones worked at the camp?

The women peeled the heavy wedding dress off of my body, snapping me back into reality. I was allowed to slip back into my mint-colored frock. Ora thanked them and we walked back out through the sea of ruffles and lace and satin to the busy streets of Krakow. It must have been closer to noon now; the sun burned brightly in the clear baby blue sky.

The car was waiting for us around the corner. The driver, the same man who drove me up to the house during my first day in Poland, hurried around the car to open the door widely for me, his anxious eyes on the ground.

"Thank you," I smiled as he raised his astonished gaze at me.

The Mercedes bounced up and down as we left the city for the open road. "Ora?" I ripped my eyes off of the window.

"Yes, sweetie?"

"What happens down at the camp?" I asked again.

Ora's chest rose up as she sighed deeply, her thoughtful eyes scanning me. "I think," she began slowly, "that this is a question for your friend. I think that she would have the best answer for you."

I turned my gaze back to the signs and fences that were flying by the window. If Herr Eberhardt is not home when we get back, I'll go down to the camp and get Santana.

When we arrived at the house, I quickly jumped out of the car to make sure that he wasn't home. To my relief, he was gone and nowhere to be seen. I wished that he would never come back.

I skipped down the hill excitedly, looking forward to the moment when my eyes would be able to satisfy their hunger for Santana's beauty. I longed for the moment when I would finally kiss her. Longed for it, but was so afraid to try it. So afraid of being rejected by the one person who had complete control over my life. The one person who I would do anything, absolutely anything, for. I would leap off of a sky-high building, swim across the endless ocean, fight and die in a bloody battle for her. If I had the choice of exchanging my freedom for her ensured safety, of changing our roles, of having her be the "superior" and me be the prisoner in Auschwitz, I would do so without a blink of thought. I would jump into a blazing fire to save her life.

Rolf shook his head with an all-knowing smile as he saw me prance down the hill. He automatically pushed open the gate and said, "Have a good day, Fräulein."

"Thank you, Rolf," I flashed a wide grin at him. "And, please, call me Brittany."

"Will do, Fräulein," he nodded. "I mean, Brittany."

I walked in the almost-familiar path to the gloomy building in which Santana resided. I was buzzing with eagerness at the thought of seeing her eyes, her cheeks, her nose, her ears, her lips, her everything.

I swung open the heavy door to find only half of the women who were there before inside the building. They turned their grim gazes to me, many of them teary-eyed as if they had just been crying.

My eyes darted around. Santana was nowhere to be found. I cleared my throat uncomfortably. "Where is Santana?"

The kind-looking woman with the large green eyes who had retrieved Santana a few days earlier came forward. "They took her and half of our sect to the gas chambers."

"To the…what?" I asked faintly.

The women gazed at me regretfully. Some seemed like they wanted to hate me, but maybe the look of puzzlement that was currently expressed on my face caused their loathing to waver. They had these looks in their eyes, as if they pitied this naïve and unknowledgeable adolescent who was standing before them.

"To…"

My eyes widened as reality punched me in the stomach, knocking every bit of air out of me. My world crashed down in an instant, shattering my glass cube into a million tiny pieces.

"To _kill_ her?"

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Fräulein" – Miss, a title for unmarried women.

_Polish_

"H i F: Ostateczny Ślub" – H&F: The Ultimate Wedding (the wedding dress shop in which Brittany gets fitted for her dress).


	7. A Paradoxical Universe

**A/N: I'm so sorry that it took me so long to update. Brittana Week happened on Tumblr and I was writing things for that, so I'm very sorry for the delay. Enjoy the chapter!**

* * *

><p>Does it ever seem to you like the entire universe is just one big paradox? Like no matter how much you want, beg, for something, your desire will never be satisfied? Like you could learn and learn for hours, but not grow any wiser? Or like you've finally found it, the answer that you've always been looking for, the faint but reassuring light within the absolute dark, the ultimate and comforting love that envelops you when she's near, you've found it, you've found her, the answer to your troubles, but just then, she's mercilessly snatched out of your desperate grip? That's how I felt when I was sprinting through the camp.<p>

It seemed like the faster that I willed my legs to move, the slower that I was actually moving. The buildings passed by like lazy snails, unwilling to move a bit quicker so that I could get to her in time. My legs strained and my muscles burned, and yet it seemed like I wasn't going anywhere. Much too slow for such a petrifying and crippling situation.

I wanted to double over and wail to the ground. I felt like someone had gotten a grip on my heart and just wouldn't let go. I couldn't breathe, I couldn't think. I just knew one thing—I needed to get to her in time. I didn't even let my mind wander to the possibility of being too late to save her. I just couldn't bring myself to even think of it.

The woman with the large green eyes had given me exact directions to the gas chambers. I was to make my way past the inhabited barracks, along the barbed fence, until I came to a long, wide building that had stairs going underground. This is where her directions stopped, however, since she had never been down there herself.

They were apparently told that they were to be taken to the showers. But the women knew better; they had known too many people who had never returned from the showers. I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that so many people were brought here simply to be killed. As I raced along the fence, the only somewhat rational thought that stole into my mind was the same question over and over again—why?

What had they done? What had Santana done? She had to be the purest, most sanctified person in this world. She couldn't have possibly done something to deserve such a horrifying fate. She was better than all of the Aryans in the world put together. Is it true what they say? That only the good die young? The mere thought almost made me fall to the ground with agony. I willed my feet to push harder against the ground and send me flying past the somber structures.

Finally, I saw the building that the girl had described advancing towards me. I dashed down the filthy stairs and flung open the heavy metal door.

I was instantly met by about half a dozen pairs of stunned eyes. The soldiers gaped at me, entirely astounded. I snapped my head around to register my surroundings.

I was in an elongated room that stretched to my left and right. Before me stood mountains of those tattered gray garments, and to my right, to my astonished disgust, was a small pile of what looked like gold teeth. I ripped my hurried gaze off of the ravaged remnants and raised them back to the soldiers.

The female soldier with the horribly cruel eyes that insulted Santana raised her surprised eyebrows at me. "How may we help you, Fräulein?" she sneered maliciously.

I couldn't find words to express the thoughts that were so desperate to be heard. I was petrified at the thought of begging this horrid woman to help me save Santana, but there was no other choice. I had to get Santana out of there. If it wasn't too late already.

I tried to catch my breath so that I could speak, but it seemed like my lungs just rejected the air. Just didn't want it. Didn't want to face the possibility that her lungs might not be in use anymore.

"You—" I paused for a moment, panting frantically. "You have to get her out."

"Have to get whom out?" the woman's eyebrows rose even further, creating deep creases in her forehead.

"Santana," I placed a hand on my aching side and leaned down a little as cold sweat slid down my face.

"And why would I do that?"

I snapped my head back up at her. "Because my fiancé will be furious if she is killed."

She narrowed her eyes at me, contemplating whether or not she should solely trust my word. Finally, she turned her head back and shouted, "Aufhören! Stop the Zyklon B!"

An earsplitting beeping noise filled the space, and some machine in another room of the building made a metallic groaning sound. My heart seemed to have given up on me. They had already started the gas. How long were the pumps on before I arrived? Long enough for the gas to percolate into the room and heartlessly steal her life out of her desperate hands?

The woman twisted her body back to me. "Santana, you said? Does this Santana have a surname?"

"Um…" I was taken aback a little as I realized that I didn't know Santana's last name. "I—I don't know."

The woman pursed her crimson lips and turned to walk to the opposite end of the room. She leaned down, lifted a gas mask off of the cement floor, and slipped it over her head in a bored manner. The black mask made her seem like some sort of demented anteater.

She walked to the door that was a few meters before her and lifted a large metal bar that was used to keep the door shut. The door swung open to reveal a very dark space. I could faintly see the outlines of bodies on the floor. My heart clenched as a terrible fear rose within me.

She sauntered unbelievably casually into the space. "Santana," she barked callously, but her voice was indistinct behind the mask. She turned on a flashlight and snapped it around. "Santana, raise an arm to indicate your location."

I began to lose hope as she meandered further into the dark space and completely disappeared. It took every ounce of my will not to just run after her into the room and find Santana myself or die trying from the horrible gas.

The minutes passed by carelessly, and I felt as if my life was hanging on the line. She was my love, my soul mate, the only one for me. I had already decided to devote my life to her. What was I to do if she had already ceased to live? I knew, as I stood there with such unimaginable anxiety, that I would never be able to move on.

And suddenly, as if by a God-given miracle, the woman returned with a naked Santana hanging around her shoulder. Santana's ribs protruded outwardly under her caramel skin and her legs seemed unbelievably fragile, as if you could easily snap them in half.

I dashed to her and the soldier let her fall into my arms. Her eyes were almost entirely closed, but not quite. Her bare skin felt cold to my touch. I carefully laid her down so that I could slip my jacket off of me and wrap it around her. It just barely covered her vulnerable bottom, but it was enough for now. I lifted her back up with astounding ease and pulled her arm around my shoulder.

Without looking back once, I made my way back to the stairs and began to pull her up, step by step.

"Do you need help, Fräulein?" I heard the voice of a young man ask from behind me.

"No," I said, a bit too loudly and defensively. I vowed to never let them touch her again.

I was panting by the time that we reached the top of the solemn staircase, but I didn't care. I had to get her back to the house as quickly as possible. I was carrying most of her weight because she was barely conscious; she couldn't even carry herself on her feeble legs.

I led her along the barbed fence until we reached the inhabited barracks. Several of the women who lived with her, the green-eyed one included, anxiously waited outside to see what had happened. When they saw me advancing toward them with Santana hanging around my shoulder, several of them raised astounded hands to cover their mouths. The green-eyed one hurried to me. "She needs water."

"I know, I know, I'm taking her back up to the house," I continued to walk, with some difficulty, across the square. I turned my gaze back to the woman. "Thank you for all of your help."

"Of course, I'm just glad that she's alive," she nodded at me and hung back, disappearing from my view. "Take care of her, will you?"

"I will," I managed, as loudly as I could. Santana may have been horridly thin, but she was getting a bit heavy now.

By the time that we reached the gate, I was drenched in cold sweat and panting incredibly heavily. Rolf's eyes widened in fear when he saw Santana and he instantly rushed to help me, slipping her right arm, which was hanging loosely by her side, around his shoulder. He locked the gate after us with his free hand and, together, we carried Santana up the incredibly steep hill.

I knocked hurriedly on the door and Ora instantly appeared to open it. She gasped and stepped back, utterly astonished, but quickly recovered from her shock and made way for us to carry her inside. We dropped her gently on the couch, and Rolf turned to me. "Brittany, I have to go back down to my station, they mustn't find out that I left, but wash her body and let her drink water. And she needs to rest."

"Thank you, Rolf," I said, still breathing heavily. He nodded at me and jogged out of the house. "Ora," I turned to her. "Will you help me to take her upstairs to the bath?"

We lifted her up together and carried her up the wooden stairs and to the bath. I turned the faucet on and let the bath begin to fill with scorching water. Santana's arm still around my shoulder, I twisted us back to Ora. "And could you please get her some water? Just bring up as much as you can."

She nodded and hurried out of the bathroom. I sat Santana down, let her lean on the bath, and caringly pulled the jacket off of her. Just then, I noticed that her left hand was gripping onto something. I eased her hand open and pulled out a black and white photograph. I put it aside and proceeded to hastily remove my clothes as well. I wasn't going to let her drown in the bath.

I lifted her into the bath and slipped in behind her. I sat us down and let her lean into me, between my legs. Just then, Ora appeared again with two large glass bottles of fresh water. I held Santana's mouth open as Ora slowly poured the water into her mouth. To my great relief, Santana was able to swallow the clear liquid.

After she drank the whole bottle, I asked Ora to leave the other bottle here and close the door after her. Once she did as I asked, I reached for the soap and began to scrub Santana's body. It was a bit difficult to reach her legs, but I did the best that I could. As I lifted up her left arm so that I could scrub it, I saw a little black tattoo on the inside of it. I pulled it a little closer to me, and saw six numbers: "011287." I wondered if it was the Nazis who had branded her like a sheep. Hate began to boil up inside me.

What gave them the right to decide to exterminate thousands of people like that? Like worthless cattle, like meaningless insects. And was it really just thousands? Back home, there was word of other concentration camps around Europe. How many people had they rounded up to be killed? And why, for God's sake, _why_?

The more that I thought about it, the less I understood it. What was their motive? What had the Jews, the Romani, the homosexuals, the disabled, done to them? It didn't seem rational, and it didn't seem likely. But it happened. One nation, one army, one dictator, was able to round up thousands, maybe millions, of innocent people to die. Was the Führer really behind it all? He was always presented as such a wise, courageous man. We were brought up to be faithful to him and to love him unconditionally. But my devotedness was wavering. Was he really such a coward that he would send entire races to be killed?

I scrubbed Santana until she was entirely clean and then let myself lean back with her head on my upper chest. I bent down and kissed her bare scalp as my arms wrapped around her torso. I would never let her go down to that camp again.

Eventually, Ora came back in and told me that she needed to rest in a bed. We poured the contents of the second bottle of water into her mouth and lifted her out of the bath. She seemed to have more strength now and was almost able to stand by herself, but her eyes were still mostly shut.

I dried her body with a towel and then mine. Ora brought us clothes from my closet and we dressed Santana in one of my nightdresses. Anxiety began to build up inside me again as I thought about how I would hide her from Herr Eberhardt. "Where could she stay, Ora?"

"She can stay in my room," Ora said firmly. I let a relieved and appreciative smile appear on my face. "Thank you," I said faintly. I grabbed the black and white photograph and we led Santana down the stairs to the ground floor and then down some more to the basement. We turned to the left and entered a tiny room. I bit my lip as I thought about how they would have to stay together in this little room.

"It's okay, Brittany, we'll manage," Ora said as she laid Santana down on her bed. "There's a spare mattress in the storage room, we can lay it down on the floor. We'll manage," she repeated. "Now, you watch her, make sure that she's okay and still breathing. I'll let you know if your fiancé comes back."

"Thank you, Ora, for everything," I sat down at the end of the bed and lifted Santana's head so that it would rest in my lap. Ora left us alone and I finally raised the photo before me so that I could examine it.

It was a studio photo depicting a woman and two children. The woman had coarse black hair that fell down to her bony shoulders, and she was wearing a long, colorful dress. The little boy, who looked to be about five years old, smiled happily from ear to ear. And the girl…a gorgeous teenager, with full, black hair and eyes as deep and mysterious as the ocean itself. Her cheeks were beautifully plump, and her lips as ripe and inviting as ever. There was a spark in her eyes, something that I had never seen before. True joy, the carelessness of a liberated teenager. She had to age so very quickly in so little time.

Suddenly, Santana used her hands to lift herself out of my lap. She gulped and turned back to me, her eyes fully open now. She had this odd look in her eyes, as if she didn't know exactly what happened or how she got here. I was so overcome with relief and happiness to see that she was okay that tears began to cascade down my face. My thoughts were clouded and I wasn't thinking right, so I did the one thing that I had yearned to do ever since I met her. I leaned forward and pulled her into a desperate kiss.

Her lips were warm and didn't disappoint. I held us together for a few more moments and then drew back. She blinked hastily, her mouth slightly parted and her expression astonished, almost offended.

This is a universe of paradoxes, where the cats bark and the dogs meow and the evil grow old and the angels die. And in this paradoxical universe exists the possibility that the woman that I am willing to faithfully devote the rest of my life to might not love me back.

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Aufhören" - Stop.

"Fräulein" - Miss, a title for unmarried women.

"Zyklon B" - A cyanide-based pesticide that was used by Nazi Germany to kill humans in extermination camps during the Holocaust.


	8. A Fatal Noose

_Dear Anna,_

_It's been two weeks now since I saved Santana from the gas chambers. We've been hiding her in Ora's room and, by an angel's doing, Herr Eberhardt hasn't discovered her yet. I feel more at peace now that she's safe._

_I kissed her, Anna. I kissed her. But she doesn't love me back, I know that now. The way she looked at me…it made me want to crawl up in my bed and never come out. How is it fair that I fell in love with her so quickly, so ultimately, and yet she can't return the feelings? Can't, or doesn't want to. I don't know. But I thought…sometimes, the way that she looks at me, it made me think…but maybe I'm just making it all up. Maybe I want her to love me so devotedly, so desperately, that I make up her love for me. Maybe she hates me._

_I don't know what I'm supposed to do. I can't stop thinking about her, Anna. I worry about her all day and all night. When Herr Eberhardt is in the house, and she has to hide down in the servants' quarters, I'm so anxious that I feel like I'm walking to my death. I feel like I'm being led up a grim, flimsy platform. The noose hangs innocently from a wooden bar, luring me to it with its dangerous appeal. On the one hand, I'm frightened of death and I dread it horribly. But on the other, it seems so comforting, so liberating. You don't have to worry about anything anymore. The rest is up to whoever is up there in the heavens. So I quietly stand on the trapdoor and let the guard slip the noose around my neck. And the more anxious that I get, the tighter the noose becomes around it. It gets to the point that I'm lightheaded and I can't breathe because the noose is blocking my airways, my brain can't function and I can't think._

_I just want her to love me, Anna. It is really too much to ask to be loved by the person that you love?_

_Always thinking about you,_

_Brittany_

I turned my head to the window and saw the sun shining lazily in the early morning. I closed my journal and hid it safely inside the drawer of my nightstand. It was imperative that Herr Eberhardt wouldn't find it. I sighed deeply and got out of bed.

Santana was already downstairs, sitting quietly at the long dining room table. She snapped her head to me when I entered, the look of apprehension quickly melting into a gleaming smile that made the butterflies in my stomach flutter excitedly. I returned the warm smile, that feeling of confusion enveloping me once again.

What would make her look at me the way that she was looking at me now if it wasn't love? What would make her stretch her mouth so widely as if it was trying to reach both ears at the same time? What would make her eyes sparkle with joy simply because I was in the room? Or was I just imagining all of it?

We hadn't talked about the kiss after it happened. It was a bit awkward right after it, but then she laid her head back down in my lap and fell asleep. When she woke up, she acted as if it never happened. I wondered if she was choosing not to bring it up, or if she really did not remember that it happened because she was so dazed from the horrid gas. Either way, I was too afraid to try to kiss her again.

She was horribly sick after I brought her back with me. She kept on vomiting, her body longing to rid itself of the terrible poison. She even had a high fever at one point. But after a few days of intense care by myself and Ora, and a lot of rest, she regained her strength and was able to finally climb out of bed. It was like she was a completely different person. She felt so much more relaxed, so much more at ease. I could tell how thankful she was to be alive. She had cheated Death. Met him, laughed in his face, and turned around back to Life. There were times when she would get a little quiet, as if she was thinking about her friends down at the camp, or her family that she missed so much. But, other than that, she turned into the most pleasant person that I had ever had the fortune to meet.

I sat down in one of the chairs and gazed at her with hungry eyes. She had tiny black hairs on her head now, and although she was still extremely skinny, she had gained some weight from eating three full meals a day. Her beauty was so delicate, yet so overpowering. When I looked at her, it was like I could get lost in her beauty. Get lost and never return, nor really wish to.

"How did you sleep?" she broke the booming silence.

I blinked hastily to snap myself back into reality. "Um, okay," I lied. How could anyone sleep okay after hours of a disgusting man shoving himself into you?

Just then, Chaim appeared out of the kitchen door, carrying two generous plates of scorching breakfast food. He laid them down before us and began to make his way back to the kitchen.

"Thank you," Santana and I said simultaneously. We turned to each other and giggled delightedly. Soul mates.

I picked up my fork and began to slowly nibble on some scrambled eggs. As soon as I did, however, I let my fork drop to the table and dashed out of the dining room and into the bathroom. I fell to the floor before the toilet and threw up what little food I had in my stomach.

This was the third time this week that I had vomited in the morning. I didn't know what caused it, whether or not I was sick or if my body had just decided to reject breakfast food all of a sudden. I felt fine except for in the mornings, which raised some suspicion in me.

Santana hurried to the bathroom and dropped down beside me as I continued to throw up into the toilet. She put her left hand on my back and stroked it back and forth. I thought about how I wouldn't mind vomiting like this all of the time if it meant that I could have some physical contact with her.

She wrapped her left hand around my hair, making sure that it was out of the way. Her right hand made its way to my forehead, stroking it lightly. Tears were swimming down my face in disorganized streaks. I felt like I was throwing up all of my internal organs.

After what seemed like hours, my stomach finally settled. Santana stood up, grabbed a towel, and quickly moistened it with water. She bent down to me and wiped my face clean. The warm towel and her other hand, which held the back of my head, gave me such gentle comfort. I yearned to always have this wonderful contact with her.

"You should really see a doctor about this, Brittany," she said softly.

"I don't want _him_ to know about it," I said, my weak voice somewhat muffled by the towel. I turned to her and she lowered the towel so that I would be able to look at her. Her head was cocked slightly to the right as she brushed my hair away from my face. Her eyes scanned me and I felt like a widely opened book. I wanted her to read me, to understand how much I really loved her. How much I needed her, and how much I needed her to need me.

She was so very close; our faces were only centimeters apart. It would've been so easy to just lean over and close that unyielding gap. To press our longing lips together again, to taste her sweet flavor and _show_ her just how much I love her.

But I had learned my lesson. The last thing that I wanted to do was to drive her away. She was too precious, too dear to me to lose. I decided that I would rather hold back my desires and still be close to her rather than lose her altogether.

She smiled warmly, her hand lingering on my cheek. Her dark eyes shone with some unknown feeling. It felt like she was dealing with just as many feelings as I was. Her lips parted and she inhaled deeply, her chin lifting up a little. Then she blinked and ripped her gaze off of me.

"Come on," she tugged lightly on my hand so that I would stand up with her. We got to our feet and made our way out of the bathroom. I still felt a little weak, so I sat down on the elongated floral couch in the living room. Santana hurried to the kitchen to fetch me a glass of water. I gulped it hungrily as she sat down beside me. When I was finished, I put the glass on the little coffee table that stood by the couch and turned to her. "Can you play something for me? On the piano?"

Her face instantly lit up like the infant sun in the rising dawn. Her mouth stretched into a luminous smile, so wide that the skin at the top of her nose scrunched up into a bundle of adorability. She nodded excitedly. "Is there anything in particular that you'd like me to play?"

"Beethoven," I couldn't help but return her smile. The butterflies in my stomach were playing a hurried game of catch.

If it was even possible, her smile widened even more, so much that her eyes could no longer stay open and they sort of disappeared into her face. All that I wanted to do at that moment was to envelop her into my arms and never let her go.

She skipped to the piano and lifted the cover off of the keys. The crimson dress that she was wearing bunched up in the back as she sat down and laid her gentle fingers on the piano keys. Then she raised her gaze to me, that breathtaking smile still wide on her face, and said, "This is the second movement of Beethoven's Sonata Pathétique."

The piece began softly. It had a sort of hopeful ring to it. Like you're walking down an endless path, desperate to get to your destination. You're tired beyond belief, but there's a desire deep within you to continue on. And finally, after days upon days of traveling, the sun rises high up into the sky and washes the morose valley with hope. And it gives you the strength to walk on until you finally reach your longed-for goal.

Santana's eyes were shut and her mouth was slightly parted. She leaned her whole body into the keys as she played and her head swayed to the slow rhythm. The piece began to become more intense, and her face scrunched up in concentration, creating a deep crease between her eyebrows. Her expression was so ached, so heartbreaking. It was almost like she was holding back tears. I yearned to be inside her mind, to hear her thoughts and to know what caused her to be moved in such a way. She became one with the piano, one with the melody. No longer a _gypsy_, no longer a prisoner, no longer in Auschwitz. All she was, all that she wanted to be at this moment, was a pianist. Not even Santana, just a pianist. There was no better way for her to reveal or to release her feelings. And she really was revealing her entire self to me in those few but amazing moments.

She finished gently and inhaled deeply before opening her eyes again. I smiled tenderly at her. "Beautiful."

She smiled down to her knees in modesty. I had a sudden desire to know every tiny little detail about her. "Santana?"

She lifted her gaze to me, her eyebrows raised in question. "Yes?"

"Tell me about your mother." It wasn't a command, it was a request. A soft request that she knew that she could deny if she so wished.

She grazed her hand over the top of the piano, deep in thought. Then she looked back up at me, as if an idea had sparked in her mind. She covered the piano keys and made her way to the couch. She sat down beside me and held out her hand, waiting for me to give her mine.

I placed my hand in her warm palm and she flipped it over so that my palm was facing the ceiling. She traced a gentle finger across the lines in my hand, her bottom lip between her teeth in concentration. She outlined the circular crease around my thumb and said, "This is your life line. People would pay my mamá to read their palms and predict their futures. Your life line is one of the longest that I've ever seen. If my mamá saw this, she would say," a smile appeared on her face as she began to speak in a heavy Spanish accent, "you, my dear girl, will live for _years_. As a matter of fact, I'm not sure that I would want to live as long as you're going to live for." Santana chuckled, her eyes lost in the past. My heart swelled to five times its original size.

"And this," she traced her finger across my palm, "this is your head line. It predicts how wise you are, or how wise you will become."

"Well?" I grinned softly.

"You're quite the scholar, look. Your line reaches all the way to the other end of your hand. My mamá would say, 'You will grow up to be a queen with such a head line.'" Santana licked her lips, entirely in another world. "And this," her voice was almost hushed, "is your heart line." She gazed up at me.

"And what does that predict?" my voice was just as quiet as hers.

"How much you love, or how much you are loved." She gulped as her penetrating eyes remained on my face. "And I've never seen one as prominent and as deep as yours." Her gaze was so intense that it was almost like I could feel it on my face. Feel it stroking my cheeks, taking in every bit of it. Her eyes fell from my desiring ones to my lips. They lingered there, and I could swear that she was about to lean over and kiss me. But she never got the chance to.

Ora came hurrying through the front door. "Brittany, your fiancé has returned early today. Santana, you'd better go down to the room."

We both instantly snapped back into reality. Santana gripped my hand and rapidly said, "Ask him to fetch you a doctor."

"But—"

"Please, Brittany," she locked her pleading eyes with mine. "Please. For me."

I nodded quickly as I heard his boots making their way across the front porch. "Okay, now go. Before he comes in."

Santana silently jogged across the living room and disappeared through the door to the basement. Just then, Herr Eberhardt meandered in through the front door. He gazed at Ora and then at me, his expression hard and stern as always, and then began to walk past us. It was now or never. "Herr Eberhardt."

He turned to me, his astonished eyebrows raised high up. I hesitated, but remembered Santana's plea and said, my voice weak and frightened, "I haven't been feeling very well lately. Could you possibly call a doctor?"

He looked at me for a few more moments, his expression unreadable, and then nodded slowly. He turned back to his determined path and made his way down the hall to his office.

The doctor arrived within very little time. There must have been some Nazi doctors down at the camp. He was an older man with a vicious glint in his eyes. As he checked my vitals, that feeling of horrible anxiety returned to me.

_I hear the citizens' eager shouting, but my sight is blocked by the black bag that was placed around my head. My hands are tied behind my back with a harsh rope that burns my wrists._

The hardhearted doctor asked me what symptoms I was showing. I quietly explained to him that I had vomited three times that week, and only in the mornings.

_The two guards on either side of me lead me up some creaky steps to what must be a wide platform._

Herr Eberhardt was standing in the corner of the room, his arms crossed at his chest and his jaw clenched tightly. After he finally came to a conclusion, the doctor turned to Herr Eberhardt and said, "She's not sick."

_The black bag is ripped off of my head, and the world is revealed to me. Thousands of people stand before the platform, their eyes malicious and hungry for revenge. The guards shove me forward and slip the noose around my neck. They tug on it so that it tightens to the point that I can't move, can't breathe, can't think. All that fills me now is the horrible anxiety that one feels before one's death._

"She's pregnant."


	9. The Girl Who Never Wanted to Grow Up

I was sitting at the head of Ora's bed, my anxious arms hugging my feeble knees, slightly rocking back and forth to calm myself down. The doctor must have been upstairs examining Brittany by now. I just hoped that he wasn't being too harsh with her.

I had this horrible feeling in my stomach, as if someone was gripping onto it and just wouldn't let go. I knew that this sickness, Brittany throwing up like that, wasn't just some stomach flu. Deep down, I knew exactly what it was. I was sure that her repulsive fiancé didn't want to wait until their wedding to sleep with her. To use her. What gave him the right? What gave him the right to mercilessly steal what was not his to have? It was not his to have. It was not anyone's to have.

What was this? Jealousy? Or pity? Or both? My first thought claimed that it was pity. But my first thought was prejudiced and bribed by my instinct, which hurriedly eliminated any possibility of me caring for a girl. The more that I thought about it, however, the more that I was certain that it was jealousy. Her virginity was not his to have because _I_ wanted to have it.

I was terribly puzzled. I very faintly remembered the contact, her lips on mine, after she had rescued me. But the memory was so dim, and I was so hazed at the time, that I wasn't sure if it was all just a dream. I wanted it to have been real. But if it really was a concrete memory of actual happenings, then I also remembered my feelings at the time. I hoped that my utter confusion didn't come off as disgust or hate. I had a feeling that it did, though, since she didn't try it again. If it really did happen.

I didn't realize my feelings for her until I was in safety. Before, in the camp, I was too preoccupied with my misery and with the fight for my life. My mind couldn't wrap itself around unimaginable things like love and romance. Only two options had existed for me—surviving or dying. But now, now that I was in safety, that I had all of this time to sit in this room by myself and just think, now that I was able to look at her in different, more relaxed eyes, now I could comprehend my feelings for her. Now I knew that I loved her.

My love for her could not be put into words. It was so sudden. It came with the realization that I was safe, and it hit me like a cannonball. It was just this unquestionable feeling, this irrefutable knowledge that settled in me—I love her. It was as simple as that. No hesitation, no doubts. It was such an amazing feeling. Having this inner peace because I had finally found my future, my destiny, my calling. I knew that if she loved me back, then I would spend the rest of my life with her. And we would raise the baby that I knew was in her womb together.

It seemed perfect, flawless. But I knew better. How was I to spend the rest of my life with her in the world that we lived in? Where she was the superior and I was perceived as nothing but dirt at her feet? And even if this war, if this nightmare was over, this was a time when it was horrendous for two women to love each other. It was entirely unheard of, an abomination of human kind. If we weren't killed for being of two different races, then we would surely be killed for being homosexuals.

And then there was the possibility that my feelings would not be returned. There was the possibility that she didn't love me. But it seemed like such an odd idea. Why would she have risked her life to bring me to the house every day, to rescue me from the gas chambers, if she didn't love me? Why would she have even stopped the soldiers from beating me? If she didn't love me, wouldn't she have just walked on like any other Aryan would? Walked on and never turned back, never gave it another thought? But she didn't. She didn't, she yelled for them to stop, she brought me back to the house and treated me like a queen. She must have carried me back to the house from the gas chambers. She must have washed me and dressed me and cared for me. She must love me.

The door suddenly flung open and Ora hurried into the room. I immediately stood on my feet and asked, "What happened? How is she?"

Ora turned to me from her small dresser. "I don't know, she wouldn't tell me. She ran up to her room and shut the door after her."

I bit my lip, more sure than ever now that she was indeed pregnant. "Is _he_ still here?"

"Herr Eberhardt? He left with the doctor. I don't know exactly when he'll be back."

"I'm going up to her," I began to stride to the door.

"Santana, that would be very careless of you. He might just be escorting the doctor back to his office."

"I don't care, she needs me with her." I hurried out of the room and up the basement stairs. When I arrived at the top, I cautiously stuck my head through the doorway to make sure that he wasn't there, and then quickly headed up the steps to the second floor. I walked to Brittany's room and paused before her door. I raised a hesitant fist and knocked lightly on the wood. "Brittany?"

I could hear faint crying from inside the room, but no response. I lowered my hand to the door handle and pushed it down carefully.

Brittany was lying in her bed under her blankets. I gently closed the door behind me and walked around the bed so that I could see her face. My heart clenched as I gazed at her swollen eyes and at the tear-soaked pillow beneath her. I slipped off my shoes and sat by her as my left hand caressed her hair. She wasn't crying anymore, just looking up at me with those electrifyingly blue eyes and sniffing every once in a while. Then she opened her mouth, cleared her throat, and choked out, "I'm pregnant."

"I know," I said softly. "I know."

"I feel so dirty, so impure," she squinted in agony. "I have _his_ child inside me. I'll give birth to a child that will grow up to be just like _him_. I just want all of this to go away." Tears began to swim horizontally across her face again, hitting the pillow beneath her head.

"I know," I lifted her head and moved myself below it so that it was resting in my lap. My hands continued to run through her hair. "But this child won't grow up to be like him, Brittany. Because you'll teach him kindness, and honesty, and generosity. You'll raise this child to be like you, not like _him_. You'll raise him to be an amazing and wonderful and extraordinary person like you."

"How do you know? How do you know that he won't love his father more, and want to grow up to be like him?" Brittany's hand clutched onto my dress.

I ran a finger across her cheek. "Because it's impossible not to love you, Brittany," I said quietly.

She turned her head so that she could gaze up at me. My mouth parted as I stared down deeply into her swollen eyes. Then she lifted herself out of my lap and brought herself to eyelevel with me. Her intense gaze shot back and forth between my eyes and my lips. And before I even had the chance to try to kiss her, she leaned forward and did so herself.

At the moment that her lips touched mine, I knew that they had been there before. They were so warm and desperate, almost hungry, for love. Her tears smeared across my face as our noses breathed side by side for a few magical moments. Then she pulled out of the kiss, her eyes frightened and vulnerable.

I couldn't contain my feelings. I let out a cross between a sob and a relieved laugh as my mouth stretched into a wide smile. I was so moved that tears began to stream down my face as well and I quickly leaned back to her so that our lips could meet once more. Now we were both crying, but they were the happiest tears of our lives. We let out scattered giggles and ragged breaths as we kept our lips attached. I brought both of my hands up to Brittany's cheeks, and she put her left hand on my left arm. It was the most wonderful moment of my life. The moment that told me that I really would spend the rest of my life with her. With my soul mate.

At last, we drew out of the kiss. She was still leaning on one hand, but her other came to my face. She grazed a wondering finger down my cheek and asked, "It's impossible not to love me?"

"Utterly impossible," I grabbed her hand and kissed it softly, my eyes entirely adoring.

She smiled widely. Then she shook her head, sighed deeply, and closed her eyes. "I didn't think that you loved me."

I wrapped my arms around her shoulders, bringing her into my chest. "I love you more than I love breathing."

She giggled softly and leaned her head into me. I cradled her in my arms and placed my chin on top of her head. We sat there for a few minutes before Brittany spoke from beneath me. "Can I tell you something? Something that I've never told anyone before?"

"Of course you can," I kissed her hair.

"When I was nine years old, before my sister was born, my parents took me to a bookshop. They told me that I could choose from the children's books that were written about our nation. They're great nationalists, my parents. But I didn't want to read some book that glorified Germany. I was a kid, I didn't care about politics. I really only wanted one book."

"Which one?" I asked curiously.

"A novel called _Peter and Wendy_. It's about a boy who never had to grow up. I was little, but I knew what was to come when I turned older. I knew that I would be given away to some man like all of the other girls. And I didn't want that. So when I saw this book, about a boy who never had to grow up, I instantly decided that I wanted to read it. I wanted to learn of his trick, how he managed to never grow up, so that I could do the same. But my parents absolutely refused to buy it for me. They said that it was a waste of my time and their money, and they left the shop."

"So what did you do?" I ran my fingers through her golden locks.

Brittany hesitated for a moment before answering. "I stole it. I took it off of the shelf and slipped it into my jacket and left the shop." She stroked a finger across my hand, which was held in hers. "I felt horrible about it. I kept thinking that the police were going to come knocking on my door and take me to prison. So the day after, I returned to the shop by myself and gave the owner all of my allowance money. I didn't tell him why, I just threw it on the counter and ran out of the store. And when I got back home, I felt a little better about having the book. So I went to my room and began to read it, and lost myself in its magic."

"So what's the storyline?" I adjusted myself on the bed so that she could lean into me more comfortably.

"Well, there are these three siblings, Wendy, John, and Michael Darling. And every night, Peter Pan, a magical boy from a place called Neverland who can fly, listens to Mrs. Darling as she reads her children bedtime stories. But one night, Peter is spotted, and in his hurry to escape, he loses his shadow."

"He loses his what?" I asked incredulously.

"His shadow. So Peter comes back so that he could find it, but he wakes Wendy while searching for it. She reattaches his shadow to him, and he starts telling her about where he's from and invites her to come along with him to Neverland. And he has this fairy, Tinker Bell, whose pixie dust can make people fly. So he uses Tinker Bell's pixie dust on Wendy, John, and Michael, and they all fly away to Neverland." She finished quietly. I heard her calm breathing from below. "I always wished that I had a Peter Pan who would come and take me away to Neverland, where I would never have to grow up into an adult. But he never did. And now not only am I an adult, but I also have a child that is growing inside of me. A child that I will have to raise in this rotten world, who will grow up to learn that some people are better than others and some people don't deserve to live. And maybe my child will also want Peter Pan to come and take him away, but Peter Pan is just a hope, an idea that is entirely intangible. My child, an Aryan, will attend the best schools, where they will teach him to hate people like you, where they will train him to be a soldier. He will be given adult tasks and taught adult things when he is just a small child. And Peter Pan will never come to save him."

I exhaled slowly and leaned my cheek on her head as my arms tightened around her. She was so helpless, so broken. All that I wanted at that moment was to destroy everything and everyone who made her life miserable. All that I wanted was to love and protect her, my love, the girl who never wanted to grow up.


	10. A Traitorous Swing

**A/N: Britt and San talk about God in this chapter, and I just wanted to let you all know that I'm not trying to offend anyone, whether you believe in God or not. Religion was very evident back then, and especially for Santana. Brittany, who had been raised in Nazi Germany as an Aryan, wasn't as familiar with God, which is why she asked about it. So, again, I hope that I don't offend anyone. I'm Jewish myself (although not very religious, if you can't tell...I write about lesbian love), so, really, my intention is not to offend, only to express their confusion about their faith. That's all. :) Enjoy the chapter!**

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><p>It was almost like I could forget, lying there in Santana's arms. Her heated cheek leaned against my head, her protective arms hugged me tightly, and she was slightly rocking us back and forth. Her chest expanded gently with every calm breath. She radiated not only comforting warmth but also overpowering love. I felt a sort of joy that I had never felt before. Bliss that soared through my veins and transmitted the same message over and over again to my brain—she loved me. I felt gratification mixed with ecstasy and tranquil harmony. It was <em>almost<em> like I could forget.

I ran my hand over my stomach area, deep in thought. In nine months, I will give birth to an innocent baby that will fall victim to the twisted hands of the Nazis. If my child is a boy, then he will be inseparable from his father, learn his ways and be taught to treat the "inferior" as he would treat his dogs, or worse. He will grow up to serve, like every other proud Aryan, in the Nazi army or in the SS, where he will murder and possibly be killed himself. If my child is a girl, then she will be close to me. And I am the one who will have to tell her that she will be married to some brutal Nazi Major General who will steal her innocence and make her bear his children. Either way, whether my child was a boy or girl, he or she was in for a harsh and unfeeling life.

I couldn't wrap my mind around the idea that there was something living and growing up inside of me. And knowing that it was _his_ made me want to dash to the bathroom to throw up again. I didn't feel like it was my child at all; I felt like he had put something of his inside me temporarily, and was just waiting for it to develop only so that he could snatch it away as soon as it came out. I was nothing but a carrier, a mailwoman who delivered a letter from one person to another. I was nothing but an offspring-producing machine.

There was this park by my apartment in Berlin. It was small and filthy and all of the kids thought that it was boring, but I loved to go there. The park originally had four swings, but three of them were either destroyed by vandalistic teenagers or had just aged so much that they simply fell off. But one was left. It had a green seat and squeaky metal ring links that dangled from the top of the rusty structure. When I was little, I would ask my mother to take me down there every day. She wouldn't have the patience to always do so, but when she did, I always had the time of my life. I would run to the deserted swing and smile at it affectionately before carefully sitting in it. I would push myself off of the ground and swing forward, then back, and then I would push myself off again. With the years, my leg muscles grew and I was able to push myself more powerfully every time. And one day, when I was around eight years old, I pushed myself so forcefully that, mid-air, one of the metal links broke and I flew off. I remembered, in the few seconds that I was in the air, how my heart stopped completely and the feeling that death was approaching much faster than it should've. And, finally, I hit the sand, landing on my arm, which broke in an instant. Never again did I want to go near a swing.

I had this same feeling now. A feeling that this joy of being with Santana wouldn't last for long. That, yes, sitting there, we were swaying happily on the swing, but that soon enough, the swing would break, allowing reality to lay down a heavy blow on us. We would fly off and have to deal with the maleficence that lurked outside of our little world. We would have to cope with the baby and with the danger and with _him_. And, lying there, tangled in her arms, me as her comfort, neither one of us really wanted to think about anything else.

"What are you thinking about?" Santana kissed my hair and leaned her chin on my head.

I nestled deeper into her. "How unlikely all of this is. Our love. How unlikely, but also how wonderful."

She chuckled throatily. "If I was told that I was going to love an Aryan girl, I would've never believed it."

I smiled into her arm. "I love you, too."

"I know," I heard the grin in her voice as her arms tightened around me. "It was when you opened yourself up to me like that, when you showed this overwhelming love, that I fell for you. Like I said, it's impossible not to love you."

I giggled softly and craned my neck up so that I'd be able to look into her dark chocolate eyes. They twinkled cheerfully and her mouth stretched into a gentle smile as I swallowed in her immeasurable beauty. Her face was a little plumper now, and she no longer looked like one of the victims down at the camp. Not that it mattered to me, how she looked. I would have loved her even if she wasn't as breathtaking as she was. But my instincts inferred that the plumper that she was, the healthier that she was. And that was the _most _important thing to me.

She stroked my hair tenderly and leaned her forehead down on mine. Now our eyes were mere centimeters apart and I could see my sky-blue ones reflected in hers. It was hard to determine who was more loving, but it was hardly a competition. Santana rubbed her nose slightly up and down against mine, never for a second stealing her gaze away from my eyes. Then she brought her chin to mine, making our lips connect, and our eyes closed simultaneously. Her arms continued to embrace me as she held us closer. I could feel the mutual desire to be as close as we possibly could, to almost melt into each other. If it were up to me, I would have stayed in that position for the rest of my life.

We slowly pulled out of the kiss. I wondered what I had done rightly to earn her love. Who had rewarded me for lasting through a life like this. Who had rewarded her for lasting through a life like hers, which was far worse than the life that I had to endure. Someone must have been looking down at us. Someone had to be watching over us and have given us this precious gift. "Do you believe in God, Santana?"

Her forehead still leaned on mine and her eyes lowered as she pondered my question. "I used to, because of my brother, Ángel. He was so sure of it, so faithful to Him, and it was hard not to follow his lead. But when he died…my faith wavered. I still believed in Him, but I didn't love Him as much as I had used to. I felt betrayed, I felt like He stole Ángel from me so that He could have him return to being one of His angels. And then, when my mother and I were put on a cattle train to Auschwitz, when we arrived here, when they sent her to the gas chambers right away for being so frail, I had lost my faith in Him completely. I didn't believe that if He existed, that He would allow _this_ to happen."

I stroked her arm. This was the first time that she had told me how her mother had died. I gazed deeply into her eyes, which were back on me. "And now?"

"Now…" She shifted her eyes to the side, and then back to me again. "Now I have you, and being here, so close to you, it's hard to believe that we weren't blessed by someone. But then I think about all of the people who are still down at the camp, all of the victims and the corpses, and…" she sighed regretfully. "I don't know." Her eyes scanned mine, and I felt like she could read me like an open book. "What do you think?"

"Well…" I bit my bottom lip in thought. "We were never encouraged to believe in anyone but the Führer. It was always about the state with us, never really about religious faith."

"But what do _you_ think?"

I raised my gaze back to her eyes. "It's hard for me to believe that this, us, happened by chance. And I want to believe that there's someone up there who's watching over us. I think that's what appeals to me about religion. The desire to feel like we're not alone here, like there's a greater someone who cares for us and wants to make sure that we're okay. Think about the gas chambers. If there is a God, then He saved you."

"_You_ saved me," Santana said somewhat defensively and embraced me further into her. "You saved me. _You're_ the reason that I'm alive, not anyone else."

I thought about what she was saying. How was it that I arrived at the gas chambers _just_ in time to save her? A minute more, and she would've been dead. The timing was impeccable—_too_ impeccable. But Santana had gone through so much, and I could understand why it was hard for her to believe in God. The thought of a God existing was far more painful to her than the thought of Him being nonexistent. If He existed, then she felt betrayed, abandoned. It was easier for her to think that we were alone in this world, man versus man with no outside interference. It was easier to believe that there was no God than that there was a biased one. A God who played favorites.

I was about to lean up to kiss her again when we heard the front door slam downstairs, and Herr Eberhardt's voice muttering some command to Ora. Our eyes locked in utter horror as we heard his boots ascending the stairs. Santana quickly released me from her embrace and we snapped our heads around in search of escape. My heart pounded hysterically in my chest and my sight became clouded with terror. I rushed to the window, but it was too high up for her to climb out of it. I silently turned back to her. Her eyes were wide open and kept darting from me to the door and back. Herr Eberhardt's boots were now in the hallway.

I whimpered quietly as I continued to search around for a place in which she could hide. There! The closet. I caught her attention and silently opened the door of the closet, gesturing for her to climb into it. She did as I told her, and just as I closed the door behind her, the door of my room swung open to reveal the stern face of my fiancé.

My fear must've shown on my face, because he eyed me suspiciously. I quickly let go of the closet handle, cleared my throat, and walked toward my bed. Ora suddenly appeared in the doorway, her face washed with the same panic that soared through my body. Her eyes darted around the room in alarm. Herr Eberhardt raised his critical eyebrows at her in question. She glanced up at him from the floor and said, "H—Herr, would you like me to fetch you some water?"

He clenched his teeth together, making his jaw seem even squarer than usual. His cruel eyes bore into Ora, making her slightly cower under his glare. He slowly shook his head, and she nodded and hurried out of the room. He calmly turned back to me. His callous eyes scanned me before he spoke, his voice, while quiet, entirely menacing. "Your reaction today was unacceptable."

I gulped apprehensively and dropped my gaze to the floor. When I was told of my pregnancy, I panicked completely and dashed upstairs, leaving him and the doctor behind.

"You are an Aryan. You serve Deutschland. Your sole purpose is to continue our race. You will bear many more children to me, and if you ever react in such a way again to this gift that I present to you, you will be punished accordingly. Do you understand?"

I nodded silently, my gaze still on the floor and my eyes threatening to shed tears.

"You are not here for your pleasure, you are here to serve me and do as I like. And if I tell you to be proud of being an Aryan, you _will _be proud to be an Aryan. Did I make myself clear?"

A large lump formed in my throat, but I could not bring myself to nod my consent. I hated being an Aryan. I hated having to serve him and raise his children and be "superior" to Santana. I found myself, again, wishing that I could live in another world, where this _monster_ didn't exist. Where I could be free with Santana to do whatever I like and be whoever I want to be.

"_Did I make myself clear?_" he reiterated dangerously.

Tears began to stream down my cheeks in disorganized tracks. It would only take a nod for him to leave me alone, but I couldn't bring myself to declare my pride in being an Aryan. To declare my hatred for Santana and all of the other innocent people down at the camp.

Before I could look up to see his reaction to my silence, his hand flew down at my face in a slap that rang loudly through the room and sent me tumbling back to the bed. The tears flowed down more freely now as I raised my hand to my aching cheek, but I never let out a sound. _I _didn't, but someone else had.

Herr Eberhardt stared at the closet, out of which the horrified squeal came. My swollen eyes snapped from him to the closet and back to him as my heart beat so quickly that it threatened to break through my ribcage. He continued to glare at the closet in hateful surprise, then turned his dangerous gaze back to me. When he saw how petrified I was, he turned back to the closet and began to walk toward it, his boots pounding on the wooden floor. He reached out his hand to the handle as my swing in the park flailed around uncontrollably.

"MARRIAGE!" I gasped as a metal ring broke and I was sent flying through the air. He turned back to me, his hand still held above the handle.

"What?"

I tried to catch my frantic breath as countless tears poured down my face. The last thing that I wanted in the world was to marry him, but it was the only thing I could think of to distract him from finding her. My eyes still on his hand, which was so near the handle, I let out, "We can't let the child be bastard."

He considered this as his hand, to my gargantuan relief, lowered. He twisted his body back to me and said, "This is the first smart thing that I have ever heard you say. Maybe there's something more here than just a birdbrain. I will schedule our wedding to be before your pregnancy starts to show." And with that, he marched past me and out of the room, slamming the door behind him.

I let out a despaired sob and dropped to the ground. Santana hurriedly dashed out of the closet so that she could catch me as I soared down from my unexpected flight.

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Deutschland" – Germany.


	11. An Ugly Duckling

"Oh, _Fräulein_! Come, quickly, we must prepare you!"

A dozen hands swamped me as they yanked me into the room. I gazed around to find seven women standing about, blonde hair pinned up nicely and blue eyes wide with enthusiasm as they scanned my face and body. They were wearing satin dresses of different colors, but all with the same theme—bright and utterly blinding. Their mouths were stretched in toothy smiles, and one of them grabbed my hand, digging into it with her long nails, and dragged me to the center of the room.

"So, Brittany, are you excited for the _big day_?" a woman in her early twenties in a cobalt dress stood before me, taking my simple summer dress into her hands. I let my eyes wander around passively, not even bothering to answer her question. This was the last place that I wanted to be at, and this situation the last one that I wanted to be in.

The women chattered happily as they gathered around me, stripping me of my dress and my last comforts. I had a sudden and odd thought that they were all hens, clucking excitedly with their arms bent back and heads bobbing back and forth. I smiled a little at the thought and wished that they would just go back to roost on their nests and leave me be.

I noticed how they paused when the dress was completely off, their judgmental eyes on the small and barely noticeable swell of my belly. I had only very recently begun to show; I was right out of my first trimester. The women's eyes bounced back and forth between my belly and my indifferent face, as if waiting for me to say something, to justify the horrible fact that I was pregnant before my marriage. After a few moments of booming silence, they turned back to each other and the chatter was renewed.

They began to prepare me for the ceremony, occasionally facing me and speaking to me, but I didn't hear them, nor did I care to. I was back in the house, back in safety, back in Santana's arms, which was where I truly belonged.

* * *

><p>"<em>Brittany, Herr Eberhardt will not be coming home tonight. He mentioned something about tradition," Ora feigned disappointment as she exited the living room to the kitchen. I buried myself further into Santana as her comforting arms wrapped around me. She leaned her cheek on my head, sighed quietly, and said, "It'll be okay, Brittany."<em>

_I felt a warm tear slip down my nose as I took in a shaky breath, my hands clenching onto Santana's blouse. "Once we're married…it'll be set in stone. I'll never be able to get away from him."_

_She stroked my hair soothingly and I breathed into her blouse so that I could smell her sweet scent. I felt a mixture of emotions, from absolute terror of what was to come to pure bliss for being in her arms, for being the one that she loved. The one that she kissed every day, and embraced in her arms, and whispered words of affection to. I didn't understand what I had done in life to deserve to be loved by such a divine and wondrous person as Santana. I must've done something right. But there was this constant feeling, this "what if." What if we were found together? What if she's taken away from me? What if she's killed because of my selfishness?_

_Santana was humming a quiet tune that she frequently played on the piano, one of my favorites, and rocking me back and forth like a mother does her child. Her left hand drifted down to my belly, and she caressed it, a frequent practice that had become a comforting habit. She sneaked her hand under my blouse to have better access to my belly, and she stroked it back and forth, almost protectively. We were hers, my child and I. And there was not one bit of protest within me to that fact._

"_I don't want to marry him," I choked out._

_Santana held me closer to her, and was quiet for a bit before saying, "When all of this is over, this war, this nightmare, we'll run away together."_

_I smiled into her shirt. "Run away to where?"_

_I could almost hear the grin in her voice when she said, "Run away to Neverland." _

_I giggled and rolled my eyes, leaning up to kiss her neck. "Tell me more about this running away."_

"_We'll run away to a distant land, with elves and centaurs and satyrs. Where everything is green, and the people are happy, and the animals speak. Where a 'happily ever after' can exist. Where it rains diamonds and the wind smells like peaches and love grows on trees. We'll be welcomed into the castle and married that same day by the King himself, and we'll ride to our new little cottage on our glowing unicorn. We'll grow into beautiful swans just like the Ugly Duckling."_

"_The Ugly what?" I asked as I stroked her arm._

"_You've never heard the story of the Ugly Duckling?" Santana sounded astounded._

"_My parents weren't much of storytellers," I shrugged, still leaning into her._

"_Well, this is an amazing one, written by Hans Christian Andersen in the 19__th__ century. It's a story about a mother duck who roosted on her nest until her eggs hatched. And she had beautiful ducklings, but there was one, big and dark and ugly, among the ducklings. And the mother duck presented her ducklings to the rest of the farm animals, but they all rejected the Ugly Duckling, saying that she should send him away. He was bullied and beaten by the other animals, until he just couldn't take it anymore and he flew away. He flew away first to a moor, then to a cottage, then to a peasant's home, but wherever he went, he was spoken down to and treated as if he was less worthy, inferior. And one day, after the seasons passed and it was summer again, the Ugly Duckling found his way back to the farm and the garden. And he saw the most beautiful creatures that he had ever seen in that garden—swans. So he flew down to them, preparing himself to be rejected by them as well—"_

"_But they didn't reject him," I found myself as excited as a little child being told a bedtime story._

"_No," Santana kissed the top of my head. "No, they swam to him and accepted him, and then he looked down at his reflection in the water—and he saw a swan. A beautiful swan, no longer an Ugly Duckling at all. He felt like he never belonged, but finally, he found his true family."_

"_Like me," I said softly. In our life, I was the Ugly Duckling. The Nazis and Aryans were the arrogant ducks, unaccepting bullies who raised their beaks at anyone who wasn't like them, and the "inferior," the harmless innocent, were the beautiful swans. Santana was the gorgeous swan that accepted me, made me her own. And I had never been happier than being a fellow swan in her arms._

_She tightened her embrace, leaned down to kiss my nose, and said, "Yes, just like you."_

* * *

><p>Now more than ever, as I was being powdered down and smeared with make-up, I felt like the Ugly Duckling. The one who never belonged. Here were these Aryan women, wives to Nazi officers, entirely engrossed in their lives of superiority and wealth. I didn't want any of that. All that I wanted was to be able to be with Santana for the rest of my life, whether it be here or there, wealthy or poor, superior or inferior. As long as I was with her, I didn't care about anything else. But in this world, where inhumanity and cruelty were so evident, such a wish was an impossible idea. Where would we run away to after the Nazi Regime conquered the entire world? It certainly seemed like they were on the way there. They practically controlled all of Europe already. How do you escape when you're surrounded on all sides?<p>

The women moved my arms and legs like a puppet until I was constricted in the wedding dress that I had been fitted into a few months earlier. I was like a marionette—all that they had to do was to tug on the strings to get me to move to their liking. That's all that anybody ever had to do, tug on my strings; it was part of being an Aryan woman. Like my father had said, I was a property of the state. Nothing more, nothing less.

They allowed me to gaze at myself in the mirror, even though I didn't really care to. What did it matter how I looked? Beautiful or not, I was to marry a horrid man, to spend the rest of my life with him. There was a comfort within me, though, a comfort in the knowledge that she would be there with me. But how long would we be able to continue to live in our little fantasy? How long did we have before _he_ found out? Before our fragile illusion was shattered?

I raised my gaze to the mirror to be met by my solemn eyes. I was hardly recognizable with all of the make-up that the women had applied to my face. The dress covered every little part of my body, and I took notice in the fact that they attached a small swastika pin above my left breast. I was branded, although in a much less traumatizing way, just like the prisoners of Auschwitz. Once again reminded that I am their property.

The women fixed the wedding veil into the bun that sat firmly on top of my head and lowered the thin, see-through fabric over my face. They were still speaking heatedly amongst themselves, and occasionally to me, but all of their words sounded jumbled and incoherent. My heartbeat quickened a bit as silent terror fell over me, and I frantically tried to set my mind on Santana again. If I could just think about her the entire time, maybe I would get through this ceremony.

Finally, the time came for me to stand by the small door that led to the Kraków town hall. It was meant to be a small, unreligious wedding. A simple and quick ceremony, almost painless. The women filed out of the room, some hugging me and wishing me good luck. I kept my lips tightly shut as I had done the entire day. I had nothing to say to them, the ones who indulged in this atrocity.

I let my mind wander back to Santana as I stood there, awaiting my future of confinement. The first time that we made love, and how I discovered what passion truly was. The way that she held me in her arms after, so protectively, as if I was the one being hunted down by those killers, not her. She was always the one comforting me, not the other way around. As if I had something to complain about after the life that she had been through. She was so strong, and when she set her mind to something, such as being there for me at every moment, comforting me, loving me, she would do it without the slightest bit of complaint. She so devotedly loved me, and I so ardently adored her, and it was almost like we could be happy in our little oblivious bubble.

I remembered her hands on my naked body, her lips on my neck, her tongue in my mouth. I remembered how my fingers so nicely intertwined in her now slightly longer hair. How she'd rock us back and forth, our legs locked around each other, our arms tangled, and our hearts beating as one. How she'd breathe heavily into my ear, and how she'd mumble, "B—_Brittany_…"

More than anything, I wanted to remain pure for her. I wanted to keep what little sanctity I still had after all of those nights with _him_. Maybe not purity in sex, but my lips were hers, and only hers. He had never kissed me before. He just came into my room, did his business, and left. There was never any intimacy between us, nor did I want there to be any. It was the complete opposite of being with Santana, with the ragged breaths and disorganized kisses and just being engulfed by each other's bodies. To him, my body may as well have been that of a prostitute. To her, it was a place of worship. Utterly irreplaceable.

When I snapped back into reality, I found myself standing at the front of the hall by Herr Eberhardt's side. Herr Von Richter, the Nazi General who had set up our engagement, was speaking about how marriage is holy in that it brings together worthy people like Herr Eberhardt and I. He was dressed in his finest uniform, and his cold eyes bore into me as he spoke. His voice sounded distant and muffled, as if he was saying these things from across an entire valley. Once again, the words either became incoherent or I was too hazed to figure them out.

Herr Von Richter turned to Herr Eberhardt and asked him a question. Herr Eberhardt's response cut into my dreamlike state like a knife. "Ich will. I do."

Herr Von Richter turned to me, and now his voice was closer, more understandable. "Do you, Brittany Susan Pierce, take this man, Richart Eberhardt, to be your faithful husband?"

I gazed apathetically at Herr Von Richter, the man whose fault it was that I was even here in the first place. But I did have something to thank him for—without him, I would have never met Santana. Life without Santana seemed meaningless, pointless. And if it meant that I would rather be here, married to this man, than not be with Santana at all, then so be it.

Herr Von Richter glared at me, sending daggers through his eyes, waiting for me to give my unwilling consent. I turned my head to Herr Eberhardt, who was standing to my left, and pondered whether or not I should go through with this. If I didn't, if I said no now, what would happen? I would be moved back to Berlin, away from Santana. I saw her body lying before me, a bullet hole in her forehead and her face frozen in horror. I would be safe, and she would be dead. I turned my head back to Herr Von Richter and said quietly, "Ich will."

Herr Von Richter's mouth stretched into a smile that looked a lot more like a sneer than anything else, and he declared, "I now pronounce you worthy man and wife. You may kiss the bride."

Herr Eberhardt pushed my left shoulder away from him so that I would be forced to face him. His harsh hands lifted the veil off of my face, his callous eyes scanning me. He put one hand around my neck and pulled me towards him, but I quickly turned my head away, and his lips barely caught the corner of my mouth. My lips were hers and no one else's. I would not let him take my very last piece of dignity.

We were frozen in that awkward position for a few moments before he finally pulled back and let go of his tight hold on the back of my neck. I licked my lips, longing to taste Santana's lips on mine again. My eyes darted around to the Nazi officers and their wives, who were standing all about the hall. I was married. Now it really was set in stone.

"Congratulations, Frau Eberhardt," Herr Von Richter sounded malicious. The Nazi officers standing about repeated his words, along with congratulations for Herr Eberhardt. My husband.

The women who prepared me pushed me toward the door of the town hall, urging me to follow Herr Eberhardt to the car that was waiting for us outside. I tripped over my dress in all of their hurried frenzy, and they quickly caught me with an "_Oh, no!_" Herr Eberhardt was already sitting in the car, waiting for me, and I was shoved into the back seat and forced to sit beside him. The excited women waved me goodbye and slammed the door in my face, leaving me alone with him.

We were taken to a small inn in the city, where we were given access to the largest, most prestigious room. Herr Eberhardt commanded me to wash myself, and, reluctantly, I made my way to the shower. To my utter terror, the haziness that served as my shield throughout this day washed away with the water. Now I was fully conscious of every little sound around me, including Herr Eberhardt's boots, which were marching back and forth across the wooden floor of the room. I was swept by dread for what was to come, and yearned to just remain in the shower for the entire night. But Herr Eberhardt was impatient, and knocked on my door loudly, saying that I was taking too long for his liking. I shut off the water, dried my body off, and wore the nightdress that had been laid out for me.

I opened the door, only to be knocked aside by a careless Herr Eberhardt. I rubbed my arm as I left the restroom, and he slammed the door behind me. Maybe if he thought that I was asleep…although it never stopped him before. I crawled under the sheets and faced away from the sounds of the shower, completely petrified of what was to happen. I suspected that it would be more horrible this time, after I had been with Santana, after I experienced what it was like to really make love. I wished to be back in the house with her, to pick our love off of trees, to ride our unicorn to our freedom. More than anything, I wished to live in the world of Hans Christian Andersen, and to be her Ugly Duckling.

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Frau" – Mrs., a title for married women.

"Fräulein" – Miss, a title for unmarried women.

"Herr" – Mr., a title for men.

"Ich will" – I do.


	12. A Nourishing Building Block

_Dear Anna,_

_I'm in my sixth month of pregnancy now. It's frightening to know that I'll be a mother in a mere three months. I'm afraid of what the future holds for me, but also, surprisingly enough, somewhat excited._

_Santana doesn't leave my side unless she absolutely has to because Herr Eberhardt is home. She developed a new hobby recently—she'll have me sit in her lap, and she'll wrap both of her arms around my belly, caressing it with her delicate hands. She'll place her chin on my shoulder so that her mouth is right by my ear, and she'll whisper everything that I am to her. Kind, beautiful, intelligent, perfect… She'll whisper for hours how much I mean to her and how her life before she met me seems so meaningless compared to what it is now. She'll tell me stories of her childhood, and fairytales, and softly sing me songs that her mother used to sing to her in Spanish. It's her hobby—but it became my favorite pastime._

_It means so much to me, because the bigger my belly grows, the more I think that I am no longer beautiful. Santana crushes all of those feelings with her gentle words. She thinks quite the opposite; it excites her to see me pregnant, because, according to her, she can look forward to meeting another person who is just as perfect as I am. When I pass my hands over my stretch marks, utterly disgusted by them, she quickly leans down and kisses every one of them, saying that they're a blessing because they mean that the baby is growing. Every time that I try to even think something negative about myself, she refutes that thought with her loving words. It's like a tower of building blocks, the type that have the alphabet on them. Santana spends all of this time building up this tower, spelling comforting words that describe me, and putting them one on top of the other, building up my self-confidence. And every time that I almost knock this tower aside, she catches it, careful not to let it fall to the ground, because it's what makes me strong, and that's all that she cares about. And she continues to build this tower every day, completely relentless and determined. Determined for it to reach up all the way through the sky and to the heavens, so tall that I'll never have a negative thought about myself again._

_I've thought about you a lot lately, Anna. How you used to call me Mami when you were very small, and how enjoyable it was to help to raise you the way that I did. I keep thinking about my child, wondering if it'll be the same. Wondering if I'll even have the chance to raise it, or if my husband will take even that option from me. If I lived in another world, without this vicious war and wicked hatred, then maybe I would be more optimistic about having this baby. If I lived in another world, where its only parents would be Santana and I. What I wouldn't give to live in such a world._

_Love and miss you beyond words,_

_Brittany_

I stared at the words that I wrote for a few moments before looking up. I was pleasantly surprised to find that Santana was standing in the doorway, leaning on the doorframe with her arms crossed over her chest. Her coy smile widened into a cheerful grin, and she uncrossed her arms and began to make her way to my bed, where I was sitting. Her hair was to her ears now, and the girl in the photograph that I had seen, so different from the Santana that I knew then, was starting to come back. She sat beside me on the bed and wrapped her arms around me, leaning her head into the crook of my neck. I embraced her with my right arm as her hand glided down to my belly. She pulled up my shirt until it was just below my breasts and began to caress my skin with her gentle hand. She hummed into my neck, and I could feel the soft vibration against my skin. Her hum slowly turned into a throaty chuckle, and I giggled as she grazed her fingers a little too quickly against my belly, tickling me. She leaned up her head and kissed my neck before sitting back to look at me. I couldn't interpret her smile; it was sort of mischievous with a hint of delighted. Suddenly, she clapped her hands together and said, "Let's rub lotion on you."

I chuckled as she jumped off of the bed and trotted to the restroom. After a few moments, she returned with a purple bottle of lotion in her hand. She raised it up before her and declared, "Femme Unique: Honeysuckle Fragrance."

I beamed at her as she made her way back to the bed. She gently pushed my arms up so that she could pull my shirt off, and then proceeded to remove my brassiere as well. She licked her lips as my breasts were revealed before her, plumper than ever because of the pregnancy. Her lips pulled up into that mischievous smile again, and she delicately pushed me back so that I'd sit with my legs straight before me. She climbed on the bed, put one knee on either side of my legs, and flicked open the cap of the bottle of lotion. She lowered herself onto my legs, which were still covered by my light green skirt, and squeezed the bottle so that some lotion would fall into her hand. She brought the lotion up to her nose and smelled it, as if making sure that she would like this smell on me. After a few moments, she raised her gaze back to me, smiling from ear to ear. She leaned forward and lowered the lotion on my belly as her neck craned to me and her lips met mine. Her hands began to rub the lotion across my belly, and I chuckled softly at her gentle touch.

Her tongue grazed against my lips, and I opened my mouth to allow it entrance. It slipped between my lips, and I lightly sucked on it, earning a quiet moan from her. After a few more minutes of this cherished intimacy, I had to break out of the kiss to release the laughter that I had been holding back because of Santana's tickling fingers. My laughter triggered her laughter as well, and for a moment we just sat there and giggled until it was out of our systems. Then Santana grabbed the bottle of lotion again, and squeezed some more into her hand before climbing off of me and hurrying to sit behind me. She wrapped her arms around me and began to rub the lotion across my upper chest. She sat close enough for me to lean into her, and I let my head fall back on her shoulder. Her hands glided down my upper chest to my breasts, and I closed my eyes as she rubbed the cool lotion on them, squeezing gently and occasionally grazing her fingers against my nipples. I craned my neck back so that I could kiss the bottom of her chin, and she bent down to place a soft peck on my lips.

Santana's hands traveled down my arms and to my hands. She raised my hands before her and, after examining them for a few moments, asked, "Where is your wedding band?"

I motioned to the nightstand beside my bed, where the ring sat. "I don't wear it unless he is home. I am not his wife when I'm with you."

"Hm." She kissed my ear gently and leaned her head on mine. She was quiet for a few minutes, and I could almost feel how her mind was churning with thoughts. "Brittany?"

I leaned my head back so that I could look at her. "Yes?"

She was silent again for a few moments before dropping her gaze to me, taking in a deep breath, and asking, "If we lived somewhere else, in another time…would you marry me?"

Her eyes were somewhat fearful as she looked down at me. Frightened of my answer, frightened of rejection. I let my lips stretch into a wide smile and said, "Of course I would."

"Really?" Santana seemed relieved and tightened her arms around me.

"Mhmm." I closed my eyes again and let her engulf me into her chest. "Don't you remember? When we live in our fantasy world, we'll be married by the King himself."

She chuckled quietly above me and buried her nose in my hair. I could feel that something was still bothering her, so I asked, "What's wrong?"

She breathed into my hair, her arms protectively locked around my baby and me. A few moments passed before she answered. "When are we going to run away?"

I opened my eyes but kept silent. I had been thinking about this for some time now. I regretted that we waited this long, that we didn't have a way or the courage to escape before. Now it seemed almost impossible to do something so dangerous when I was so far along in my pregnancy. And once I had my baby…even if I was willing to leave it behind, Santana never would. We would have to wait years for the child to grow old enough for us to leave, and who knows what would happen by then?

Santana rubbed her forehead against the back of my head. "It's never going to happen, is it?"

I twisted my body in her arms so that I could face her. Her eyes, as dark as the bottom of the ocean, seemed so despondent and desperate. She licked her lips, and I could see how hard she was trying to hold back her hopeless tears. And I couldn't blame her for it. She had been stuck in this house, without any fresh air, for over six months now. I couldn't imagine how much she longed to leave, to not be in this constant state of fear, of _what if he finds me?_ And I knew how much I wished for her to be in safety as well. The stress of being found out was almost crippling to both of us.

I stroked my thumb across her cheek and leaned in for a soft kiss. What could I say to her? Lie, tell her that we'll find a way somehow, sometime soon, and that it'll all be okay? I didn't know what our fate was, what her fate was. I didn't know if we had a day to still be together or a year or a lifetime. Everything was so fragile. Our entire world could break with a simple thud from downstairs that sends him searching for the source of the mysterious sound, or a foolish little slip of the tongue. We both knew that escape in my current state was not an option. But would it ever be an option?

I drew out of the kiss and wiped the tear that had slipped down her cheek with my thumb. "No matter what," I lifted her chin with my finger, "no matter what, Santana, I will always be with you."

A sad smile formed on her face, and she was about to speak when Ora dashed into the room. "Girls!"

We both turned around, and Santana quickly picked up my shirt and spread it across my chest to cover my bare breasts. Ora seemed short breathed, and she quickly said, "He's here, right now. Santana, you need to get to our room before he enters the house."

Santana flew off of the bed and out the door, leaving me behind. I hastily stood up, fixed my brassiere on me, slipped on my shirt, and hurried after Ora, through the hallway and down the stairs. Herr Eberhardt was standing in the living room, quite aware of the ruckus that we had been making. His eyes were hard and heartless as he watched us make our way down the stairs. I put my hand on my belly to try to calm down my baby, who started kicking inside my womb, as if aware of my anxiety. I tried breathing in deeply to relax myself, hoping that it would relax my baby as well. I glanced at the door that lead to the basement. It was cracked open, but I assumed that Santana had made it since there was no sign of her. I shifted my gaze back to Herr Eberhardt.

He eyed me judgmentally for a moment before ripping his gaze off of me and marching to the dining room. I made sure to soundlessly close the door to the basement before following him reluctantly. Ora was setting up the table for our meal, and she glanced up at me for a moment, silently asking me if Santana made it to the room. I nodded briefly and took a seat across from Herr Eberhardt. I raised my gaze back up to him, but quickly cowered under his glare. He never failed to make me feel worthless.

Chaim entered the dining room from the small door that lead to the kitchen, two grand dishes in his hands. Before he had the chance to lay them on the table, Herr Eberhardt suddenly stood up, a murderous look in his eyes, and made his way to me. Ora and Chaim froze in place as he gripped my left arm and brought my hand before him. His eyes bore holes into me as he said, "Where is your ring?"

My breath caught in my throat. I cursed myself for leaving the ring on my nightstand. "Um—"

Herr Eberhardt pulled me out of my chair, his grip on my upper arm tightening. "What if some Nazi officials were to visit our house, and see my wife without her wedding band?" he uttered dangerously.

I gulped anxiously and quietly whimpered at the death grip that he had on my arm. My baby kicked relentlessly in my belly.

"What is your excuse?" he growled.

"I—" I tried my best to hold back my tears. His grasp had made me lose all feeling except utter pain in my arm. I took in a shaky breath as my eyes jumped around the room in search of an answer. "The—the swelling."

Herr Eberhardt breathed heavily for a few moments before muttering, "What?"

"I—" A few tears cascaded down my cheeks. "My fingers swelled—because of the pregnancy—the ring was too tight."

Herr Eberhardt looked completely disgusted. He was quiet for a few seconds, but then he tightened his grip more, if that was even possible, and started shaking my entire body with each word that came out of his mouth. "Revolting—I've never been so disgusted with anyone—my child better come out like me and not like you, you—repulsive, worthless _nothing_."

He let go of my arm, dashed out of the dining room and out the front door, slamming it behind him. I heard his automobile rev and drive off. I fell back into my chair and let the tears stream freely down my cheeks, my right hand caressing my left arm. I sobbed miserably, leaning my head down. Blood was starting to flow back into my arm, and the pain was more powerful than ever. I glanced at it and saw a very obvious bruise in the shape of his hand. I felt like my baby was suffering with me, the way that it was kicking inside me. I felt like the tower of nourishing building blocks that Santana had so diligently built was carelessly knocked aside, leaving me wounded and vulnerable. I felt repulsive and worthless, just as Herr Eberhardt said.

The comforting arms that I loved so much slipped around me and a gentle kiss was placed on top of my head. "What happened?"

Through my tears, I explained to her how I had forgotten my wedding band on my nightstand, and my excuse for doing so, his reaction and his harsh words. She passed her fingers over the bruise on my arm, and then began to pace back and forth across the dining room. Ora and Chaim, who were frozen in place the entire time, made their ways to the table and sat in two wooden chairs, shaking their heads.

Santana continued to pace back and forth, her hand pulling her hair back in agitation. "He could've seriously hurt you—how dare he—you're with _child_, for God's sake—"

It was like he was physically hurting her by hurting me. She looked entirely lost and so very furious that there was nothing that she could've done about it. She kept licking her lips and then biting her lower one, her hands pulling at her hair. Suddenly, she turned to me, a look in her eyes that I had never seen before. "We have to leave. _Now_."

"Santana—" I began, only to be cut off by her panicked rant.

"You don't understand, Brittany. That man could kill you. He doesn't care what happens to you. He could—" She dropped to the floor, unable to take more of this pressure. She began to half-sob half-pant hysterically, in utter terror of the thought of him killing me.

I made my way to her and sat down on the floor beside her, embracing her caringly. "He won't hurt me as long as I'm carrying his child."

"And after?" She raised her petrified and swollen eyes to me. "What happens after, Brittany? After you've served your duty, after he doesn't need you anymore?"

I brushed my fingers through her hair. "His name and his image are everything to him, San. He won't want to ruin them by killing his wife, or by killing me and passing it off as suicide. It'll make him look weak, and that is the last thing that he wants."

She held onto me desperately, as if I was about to run away and disappear from her life, and sobbed into my shirt. I leaned my head on hers, and decided that although I was physically and mentally hurt at the moment, although my tower had fallen and broken to pieces, it was now time to build her tower, and to spell with those building blocks the positive and comforting things that the future might hold for us.


	13. Run Away with Me, My Princess

Once upon a time, there lived a fair maiden in the capital of Faraway Land. Every day, the fair maiden would wake up at the crack of dawn, wash her face with water from the well, braid her black-as-midnight hair, and leave her modest, and rather sad, cottage. The fair maiden was what you could call impoverished—she worked from dawn till dusk but gained so little money for it. Her work was wearisome and tedious—she was an apprentice seamstress in a shop that produced apparels for the royal family, so meticulousness was imperative. There were six members in the royal family—the King, the Queen, a Prince, and three Princesses. She herself had only sewn garments for the Prince and two of the Princesses. She was not very fond of any of the three, for they were self-centered and demeaning. She suspected that the King, the Queen, and the remaining Princess, the youngest of the four, behaved so as well. But what could she expect? They were royalty and she—well, she was a simple, insignificant inferior.

On this misty morning, the fair maiden was especially dreading her work. It was her birthday, after all, and birthdays were days when _you_ were the princess. She chuckled bitterly to herself. Who was she fooling? _She_ would never be a princess.

She arrived at the shop precisely when the cock crowed and took her seat on a hard-backed chair to begin her work. She was sewing a dress in light blue, supposedly for the youngest of the Princesses. She was entirely unenthusiastic about meeting this new face—surely her behavior would be identical to that of her siblings. She placed a small thimble on her finger and, with a grand sigh, began her work.

The fair maiden had just finished sewing the gown when the door of the shop creaked open and a young girl, who looked to be about her age, shuffled in. The fair maiden was a bit taken aback—was this the Princess? She couldn't be. None of the other members of the royal family were _this_ beautiful. Golden hair crowned her head, and her eyes, as blue as the morning sky, twinkled shyly above her demure smile. The fair maiden found herself no less than gaping at the girl, her mouth shamelessly open and her eyes as round as the sun. She snapped out of her trance when a steward with a thin moustache entered the shop, his bleached outfit reflecting the light from outside. She hurried to yank her jaw closed and cleared her throat in embarrassment. The girl—who, she realized, was indeed the Princess—chuckled coyly and shifted her gaze. The fair maiden rose to her feet and lifted the dress into her arms. The Princess's eyes fell on the frock, and she gasped in amazement. "Is it mine?" she whispered in awe.

"It is, your Highness," the fair maiden replied with a little grin. This Princess was not at all like the others. This Princess was modest and coy and, it seemed, utterly perfect. She beamed at the fair maiden, whose grin grew wider at the beauty of her smile. For a moment they just stood there, entirely immersed in each other's magnificence, until the steward cleared his throat and turned to the fair maiden. "Well?" he demanded. "Are you not to fit the Princess into this gown?"

The fair maiden lowered her inferior gaze for a moment before beckoning the Princess to follow her to the fitting room. The Princess shot an offended glance at her steward and then proceeded to follow the fair maiden through the wooden door that led to the back of the little shop. Once inside the small space, the fair maiden closed the door and turned back to the Princess. She wished that this room had a sort of window or any opening through which cool air could flow into the room, because—well, she could not lie to herself—the Princess was beautiful beyond belief and she was about to see her in nothing but simple undergarments. A bead of sweat formed on her forehead just at the thought of seeing the Princess's slim body being fit into a corset. She quickly wiped it away, and hesitated for a moment before uttering, "Your Highness, I kindly implore you to remove your attire."

The Princess's lips lifted into that same coy smile as before, causing the fair maiden to almost melt with joy. She turned around and motioned at her back. "Will you be kind enough to aid me in removing it, sweet seamstress?"

The fair maiden's eyes widened with worry, for she feared that she would not be able to endure the inevitable closeness of their bodies, but she nevertheless closed the gap between them and reached two uncertain hands to pull on the string that held the Princess's dress together. As the simple dress peeled off of the Princess, the fair maiden's breath caught in her throat. The Princess's upper back was revealed before her, above the tight corset that was placed around her body. The fair maiden licked her lips as the garment fell off completely, pooling on the ground in a swirl of light yellow and pink. The fair maiden set it on a stool, lifted the gown that she had sewn, and turned back to the Princess. The latter was gazing curiously at the fair maiden, that everlasting smile still spread on her face. The fair maiden bathed in the Princess's glory, and noted how beautiful her skin looked, her shaped upper arms, her defined collarbone. She realized, again, that she was gaping, so she tore her gaze away from the Princess's breathtaking body and hurried to her, untying the string of the frock as she did so.

After a few awkward moments of situating the dress around the Princess, the fair maiden straightened her back and began to pull tight the string. Her skin tingled where it had grazed against the Princess's, and she was utterly exhausted from the strange arousal that the Princess provoked in her. "All finished, my Princess."

The Princess turned to the fair maiden, examining the dress that was now set on her body. She ran her fingers across the sleeves that reached to her elbows and the varying shades of blue that created a soft, wave-like pattern. The Princess raised her gaze back to the fair maiden and grinned widely. "There is no doubt in me that this is the finest dress in all of Faraway Land. I beseech you to sew more gowns for me, sweet seamstress—why, I feel as though I am the most beauteous and elegant Princess in the land when I wear this gown."

The fair maiden beamed and puffed her chest in pride. To be given such a compliment from a _princess_ was not a usual occurrence. "I will sew a thousand gowns for you, Princess."

And so it was that the Princess returned weekly to the fair maiden's shop, each time reveling in the fair maiden's talent for sewing. The fair maiden, on her part, sewed more creatively each time, feeling as though she was given space to express her feelings for the Princess through sewing. She believed that the Princess did not need her dresses to be the most beautiful girl in the land—she was already that, and more. But the weekly visits of the Princess were too precious to express such thoughts.

It was on a midsummer day that the Princess came into the shop with a certain desire boiling inside of her. Without a word, she pulled the fair maiden into the back room, shut the door behind them, and drew her into—believe it or not—a kiss.

The fair maiden, though surprised, embraced the Princess and kissed her back fervently. She had been longing to do this ever since the Princess first set foot in the shop. They remained in this intimate hold for a few more moments before the Princess pulled away, her eyes glimmering with passionate desire. She grazed her finger against the fair maiden's cheek, and whispered, "It is an otherworldly idea, I am aware—but will you be my bride?"

The fair maiden gawked at the Princess. Are princesses allowed to marry girls, and maidens at that? She recovered from her initial shock, however, and her lips pulled into a grand smile. "I would marry you without a single thought to it, my Princess."

And so the kingdom of Faraway Land prepared a royal wedding, although many questioned the case. It was different, yes—but the Princess was allowed to do as she pleased. The King voiced some doubt in the matter, but the Princess was adamant about marrying the fair maiden. She would hear nothing of complaints and criticisms. And she received her heart's desire—on a warm midsummer night, they were wedded to each other with the King's blessing.

The fair maiden, who was now a princess as well, lived in the castle with her one true love. They woke up side by side every morning, dined together, bathed together. They were at the height of their joy and utterly unstoppable.

But one day, tragedy fell upon the kingdom. The Queen passed away of some unknown disease, and the King, who loved her dearly, was sent into a spiral of rage. He commanded his guards to bar every entryway to the castle, so that no one could enter, and no one could leave.

At first, the fair maiden believed that she would not mind so much being confined in the castle when she was with her Princess. But after seven new moons of such confinement, she began to feel a little crazed. She longed to be outside, to skip in the sunshine, to smell the fresh air. She would pace back and forth, unable to sit still any longer, unable to think about anything except for the outside world that she so missed. Her Princess would attempt to calm her, she would envelop her into her arms as the fair maiden sobbed, caress her, love her, but it was no use. All that the fair maiden wanted, at this moment and at many moments after, was to run away, far far away, with her Princess.

* * *

><p>I turned on the faucet and let cool water pour out before cupping some in my hands and bringing it to my face. I let the water spill back into the sink, fixed my hands on either side of it, and squeezed my eyes shut. Maybe if I could just imagine being outside…but it was never enough. Imaginations just wouldn't do. I <em>needed<em> to be outside.

It was to the point that I was so antsy that I couldn't even sleep. I was running on nothing but a couple cups of coffee and two restless hours of sleep. I couldn't stay still, whether in bed or upstairs with Brittany. I was constantly pacing around the rooms, or bouncing my knees when I was sitting. I felt like I was choking. The house was just too stuffy. I couldn't breathe in there. I wanted to go outside so badly, but not only would my life be on the line, but also Brittany's and our baby's. I couldn't risk them. But it was just so difficult.

I guess that's what happens after over seven months of being confined in one small space. I knew the house like the back of my hand—every tile, every crack. I knew that there was a scratch on the far right corner of the dining room table, and I knew that the third stair of the basement staircase creaked horribly. Whenever I became extremely restless, Brittany would embrace me into her arms and stroke her fingers through my hair. I'd put my ear to her seven-month-pregnant belly and try to listen, to hear any sound that our baby might make. It helped to think of the future that we might have together with our child. It helped, but it also plummeted me into another spiral of anxiety and hopelessness.

I was very careful to always tell Brittany that our child would grow up to be like her, not like _him_. But inside, I was afraid. I was afraid that we wouldn't get the chance to raise our baby to be like us. Afraid that _he_ wouldn't let Brittany anywhere near the child, afraid that he or she really will grow up to be like _him_. And even if Herr Eberhardt didn't insist on always having the child with him, what would happen when that child grew up? What if he accidently spoke of me, of his other mother, who lived down in the basement, in the presence of his father? And how, for God's sake, how was I to stay in that house for years to come?

I didn't know how much longer I'd be able to stand being in there. How much longer before I cracked? Before I did something so careless, before I was caught by that horrid man? What then? I would be dead, and Brittany… Who knows what would happen to her? She would be killed, or sent down to be a prisoner in the camp. She would be banished from the Aryan race for hiding and loving an _inferior_. Her entire life could be ruined because of me. I couldn't let that happen.

A pair of caring arms slipped around me, and I opened my eyes to find Brittany's blue ones gazing at me through the mirror. I turned off the faucet and wiped my face dry with a towel. Brittany leaned forward and set her chin on my shoulder, her eyes still on me. "How are you?"

I sighed as I leaned my head sideways on hers and our gazes locked through the mirror. "I'm fine."

"No," she closed her eyes for a moment. "No, you're not."

I inhaled deeply and lowered my gaze. There was no use in lying to her. She knew me better than I knew myself. "Come," I grasped her hand and led her out of the restroom. We walked to her room and she sat down on the bed, her hand on her belly. I gently pushed her back until her head lay on the soft pillows and climbed onto the bed beside her. I placed a tender kiss on her lips before gliding down her body, pushing her blouse up, and placing my ear on her belly, my face to her. She smiled sadly and stroked her hand across my cheek. "Britt?"

"Hm?" She passed her fingers through my hair, her eyes gleaming in the late afternoon light that shined through the window.

I paused for a bit, thinking out my words before answering. "If you could bring one person back from the dead, who would it be?"

Brittany pursed her lips in thought, her gaze shifting around the room. Suddenly, her eyes widened and a grin spread on her face as she looked back down at me. "Hans Christian Andersen," she beamed.

I chuckled quietly at her enthusiasm. "Why?" I turned my head to lay a gentle kiss on her belly.

"Because," her grin widened further, "because if we brought him back from the dead, he could write our happily-ever-after fairytale story."

A sad smile formed on my face, and I closed my eyes and inhaled deeply. How long would we continue to engage in our fairytale game, in our fantasy world, in our perfect life together? How long would we continue to fool ourselves, to pretend that it's okay, that this wasn't war-torn Europe, that our love was not forbidden?

"Who would you bring back from the dead?" Brittany combed her fingers through my hair again.

I kept my eyes shut and bit my lower lip. After I was silent for a few moments, Brittany said softly, "Ángel?"

A tear slipped down my cheek and onto her belly, and I nodded, taking in a shaky breath. "I miss him," I said hoarsely.

"I know, San," she wiped the tears from my face. "I know."

"I just feel like he would've known the answer. How to get us out of here. He was always so bright for his age." I sniffed and looked at her. I could tell how worried she was about the way I was acting in the past couple of weeks, ever since that man left a bruise on her arm.

Suddenly, I felt a little flutter under my ear. My lips widened into a joyous smile and I put my hands on either side of Brittany's belly. Brittany giggled at my touch and said, "Look how much our baby cares for its mama."

A grand smile still spread on my lips, I turned my face to her belly and began to lay kisses all across it. Brittany continued to stroke her fingers through my hair as I did so, occasionally giggling at the tickling kisses.

When her hand dropped from my hair to the bed, I turned my head to find that she had fallen asleep. I smiled softly to myself and lifted my body away from her, pulling her blouse down so that it would cover her belly again. I slid off of the bed and wrapped Brittany in the thick blanket. I stood by the bed and hugged my arms around me as I looked down at her peaceful face. Her mouth was slightly parted and her chest lifted and dropped rhythmically. She was utterly perfect—almost like a dream that was in danger of being shattered at any moment. I tightened my jaw closed and blinked hastily as anxiety began to build up inside me again. I closed my eyes and attempted to steady my breathing, balling my hands up into shaky fists. It felt like the room was closing in on me, like the air was too moist to breathe. I found myself breathless in minutes, in a sort of hyperventilating state. Thoughts about being found out or Brittany dying in labor riddled my mind, and everything—our troubles, the deaths, this entire war—seemed like it could be solved with one simple act. All that I had to do was to go outside and bathe in fresh air, and the world would fit itself back into place.

I flicked my eyes open and held my breath as I gawked at Brittany. Herr Eberhardt wasn't home. It wouldn't hurt anyone if I went outside, just for a little bit, just to catch my breath. It wouldn't hurt anyone.

I turned on my heels and trotted out of the room, in utter joy that I was about to finally leave this house. I skipped down the stairs, two by two, and dashed to the front door. I felt sort of strangely powerful as I pushed down the handle of the front door and met the cool night air. I stood in the doorway for a moment, a cheerful grin spread on my face, gulping in the fresh air. It smelled so pure, tasted so sweet, felt so welcoming. I let out a breathy laugh as I took a step out of the doorway and let the cool air envelop me completely. I wanted to jump up in joy, to scream to the world that I was Santana Lopez and that I loved Brittany Eberhardt. I strolled across the front porch and down the wooden stairs, reveling in this long-missed feeling. I let my eyes wander around the hilltop, the beautiful bushes and breathtaking trees. It seemed like each star in the night sky was twinkling brightly especially for me. I felt powerful and mighty—I felt unstoppable.

But all good things must come to an end. The sweet air caught in my throat at the sound of tires against gravel. I spun around so quickly that I almost toppled over. A black Mercedes was approaching the house at an outrageous speed. I snapped my head around and realized, panicked, that I had wandered too far away from the front porch. I knew that I would never make it in time. The automobile's headlights washed the house and the baby blue front door, which was cracked open. The car came to a halt before the front porch, and a dark figure exited the driver's seat. I bolted behind the nearest tree, but the traitorous gravel on the ground made noise under my feet. As I peeked through the leaves, praying that they and the dark night were enough to keep me hidden, the dark figure turned toward the tree behind which I was hiding. The man stood motionless for a few moments before slamming the door of the Mercedes and walking around the vehicle—and _not_ toward the house.


	14. A Hopeless Labyrinth

I flick my eyes open to find myself in between two seemingly endless brick walls. I twist my body around and look behind me. The walls are endless in that direction, too. Which way do I go?

I don't know where I am, but I know that I'm supposed to get somewhere. And when I do get there, I'll receive a prize. A prize in the form of Santana, and a one-way ticket out of this hell of a war. A one-way ticket to a better place, a better time, where we could raise our baby together without a single thought of worry on our minds. But how do I get there? How do I find what so desperately needs to be found?

I stand facing one of the walls, my head snapping back and forth between the two directions, the two options that I have. I decide that I've always favored left over right, but there's a problem. If I turn around and face the other wall, then left will be right and right will be left. Which left do I choose?

I squint my eyes in each direction, attempting to see beyond the mysterious mist and never-ending path. But it's no use. All that I can see is darkness on either side. I inhale deeply and make my decision—or my un-decision, choosing to leave it up to fate. I close my eyes and begin to spin in my spot. I continue to twirl, faster and faster, and for a moment I feel as though I am going to take flight. I feel young and liberated, and I forget why I'm here and what my goal is. But the moment ends, I begin to feel dizzy, and I stop in place. I shake my head a bit, swaying unsteadily, Santana's face returning to my mind, reminding me that she's the most important thing in my life, and that a young and liberated feeling could only exist with her. I open my eyes and find myself facing one of the endless paths. I take a deep breath and begin to cautiously walk down it.

I walk for hours, or maybe seconds, before I see an opening in the brick wall to the right. I hurry to it, wondering if that's the way to get to Santana. On the other side of the opening is another brick wall, and I suspect that it is an adjacent path. I shake my head in confusion. What is this? A labyrinth? If so, Santana must be at the center. I look above me at the night sky, silently begging for some help. But no one is out there to hear my wish. It's just me and these brick walls. A challenge that has been set up for me, and me only, to complete.

I close my eyes and try to think. If I am at the outermost path, then this opening should lead me towards the middle. But if I am at a more inner path, then this opening may lead me outward, which is not what I want. I bite my lower lip and scratch my head in thought.

Suddenly, an idea pops into my mind. I close the gap between myself and the continuous wall of the first path, and put my ear to it, my palms flattening on the cool bricks. I can faintly hear nightlife on the other side of the wall. The hoo of an owl, the squeak of a cricket. I quickly make my way to the wall that stands past the opening, and put my ear to that one as well. Nothing. I smile triumphantly.

I decide to take the left and begin to jog down the path. After a few minutes, to my great dismay, I reach a dead end. I let out a frustrated sigh and run in the opposite direction, past the opening and along the trail. Eventually it turns left, and before I know it, I'm standing in front of another dead end. I pound the wall with the side of my fist, but immediately regret it as pain soars through my arm. I shake it a little before turning on my heels and running back along the isolated pathway.

No matter which way I turn, which opening I enter, I always meet a dead end. After what seems like the hundredth one, I fall to my knees, frustrated beyond belief, and yank at my hair. I lose all hope, thinking that I will never see Santana again, that I will never have the happy ending that I so wanted with her. I sit back and wait for some sort of miracle to happen. I'm there for what seems like forever until the cold darkness of the night envelops me, and I, too, like Santana, am gone.

* * *

><p>I yawned comfortably in bed, my eyes still closed and my hand gliding down to my belly. I stroked my fingers across it, longing to meet the baby that was inside of me. I opened my eyes slowly but felt too lazy to get out of bed. Warm sunrays shone through the curtains of my window and my baby was moving calmly inside of me. I faintly remembered my dream. I was in a labyrinth, and I tried to find Santana, but I couldn't… What did it mean?<p>

I remembered how I fell asleep with Santana placing soft kisses on my belly. My heart swelled to twice its original size just thinking about her and the love that she had for our baby and I. The most important decision that I had ever made in my life was going down to that wretched camp for the first time and stopping those soldiers from forcing themselves upon her. I remembered the look on her face, a mix of incredulity and gratefulness. I remembered how I fell in love with her instantly, with her plump lips and desperate eyes. How I took her back to the house, and fed her, and let her play the piano. The look of disbelief in her eyes at any kind act that I bestowed upon her. I remembered how I brought her back up every day after, and how her uncertainty slowly melted into comfort. I remembered the gas chambers and our first kiss, and the second kiss that came a few weeks after. The first time we made love, and how golden it was. How she embraced me as she rocked us back and forth, our hurried gasps and damp bodies. Her lips on mine, her tongue sliding slowly in and out of my mouth. Her warm hands on my body, her soft whispers in my ear. How she told me that she loved me, and how this situation, this house, this war, suddenly became brighter. So much love filled me that I was sure that I would burst.

But lately, it seemed as though Santana was restless. I knew that she hated being in the house, that she felt confined and anxious. I knew that part of those feelings came from her worries, of what was to become of us. She was frightened for our lives, and frightened of what the future might hold for us. I wanted so badly to fix that feeling within her, but I couldn't find a way to. Nothing that I said washed it away. She _needed_ for us to leave. But what do we do? Where do we go? And how do we get away unnoticed?

I wished that I had the answers to those questions. Not so much for me as I did for her. I couldn't blame her for being so anxious and lost. I was sure that I would have felt the same were it me who was stuck in that house for seven long months. I shook my head hopelessly and climbed out of bed.

After getting dressed and brushing my teeth, I made my way down the wooden staircase to find that Herr Eberhardt had not left the house yet. He was sitting at the dining room table, apparently waiting for his breakfast. He turned his head to me when I walked down the stairs, his gaze cruel and hateful as always. I walked past the dining room, looking for Ora, until I found her dusting a dresser in one of the spare bedrooms. She turned when she heard my footsteps, a worried expression on her face. "Did Santana sleep well?" I asked her quietly as I sat down on the bed.

Ora blinked a few times and took in a deep breath before answering. "She never came back down to the room, Brittany."

I stared at her, unwilling to believe what she said. "Did she sleep in Chaim's room, then?"

Ora shook her head, a pained look on her face. My eyes widened and my breath caught in my throat. "What are you saying?"

She opened her mouth, about to speak, when Herr Eberhardt walked into the room. We both snapped our heads to him and held our breaths.

His eyes jumped between Ora and I, assessing the situation. I searched his face for some sort of explanation for Santana's disappearance. His eyes were cold and distant as usual, but there was something different. I tried to place my finger on it. What was it? Happiness? He didn't seem like the man to be happy about anything. I exhaled shakily as fear enveloped me and I realized what it was. Victory.

His eyes fixed on me. "Come eat. We're celebrating." He turned and marched out of the door.

I snapped my head to Ora, and found her eyes to be as wide as mine felt. I gasped, unable to catch my breath. It can't be… This is not how it's supposed to end… She can't be…

Ora grasped my shoulder. "Go, before he returns and beats you for not obeying him."

I let out a dry sob and cupped my hand over my mouth, every ounce of energy put to holding back my tears. Ora stroked her hand lightly down my arm. "Go, Brittany."

She pulled me up and guided me to the dining room. I tried to steady my breath and regain composure, but that task seemed utterly impossible. Before we arrived at the dining room, Ora let go of my arm and pushed me lightly forward so that I would continue on my own. I was so panicked that I could barely see where I was walking. I stumbled into the dining room and shakily took a seat opposite Herr Eberhardt. I clenched my jaw tightly closed, my breathing sharp and uneven. I began to get lightheaded, and it felt like everything was going black. It felt like the whole world was crashing down on me, on my shoulders, weighing me down. I felt like there was no point in living anymore, not without her.

My baby kicked inside my belly and snapped me back into reality. I remembered that I was supposed to act like nothing happened. But if he killed her, then he knows. He knows that I kept her hidden here for months. I raised my gaze to him and found his eyes staring me down unyieldingly.

Chaim entered the dining room with two steaming plates of breakfast food. He placed them before us, shot me a worried glance, and hurried back to the kitchen. I gazed at the food. There was no way that I was going to be able to eat even one bite without throwing up. I already felt like my body was shriveling up from holding all of this panic inside.

Herr Eberhardt lifted his knife and fork and began to scoop up massive amounts of food at a time. After a few large bites, he looked at me and then down at my untouched plate. "Eat."

I felt myself going numb, detaching from my body, as I picked up the silverware. Another Brittany somewhere else was sobbing her heart out at this very moment, crying hysterically and miserably at her lost love. She was curled up on the ground, her eyes swollen with grief and her voice hoarse from crying. She was closing her eyes and wishing, more than anything, to die at this very moment. Knowing that there's no point in living a life without the only person that she ever loved, the only person that she will ever be able to love. She was grabbing a knife from the kitchen and carving her heart out of her chest so that it would stop aching so badly. She was thrusting that knife in and out of her, her only desire to die.

But this Brittany had a child inside of her. This Brittany had to protect herself in order to protect that child, because she knew that that's what Santana would have wanted. This Brittany had to try to remain calm so that her maleficent husband wouldn't kill her and her baby. Her baby was innocent. It had no reason to die. Santana would have wanted them to live.

I forked a small piece of the omelet and brought it up to my mouth. It felt like paper against my dry tongue. I chewed and swallowed with some difficulty, glancing back up at Herr Eberhardt. His eyes, once again, looked triumphant.

I wanted to throw this plate of food in his face, to punch him until he fell to the ground, to stomp on his face and his genitals until he became a pool of blood. I wanted to tear those triumphant eyes out of his face and to break his nose and to scream at him. To ask him why, why he had to kill her. What she had ever done to him. I wanted to, but I settled for a quiet utterance, "What are we celebrating?"

He eyed me coldly, his mouth chewing slowly. When he finished, he muttered, "Wouldn't you like to know."

I held his gaze for a few more moments before he turned indifferently back to his plate. This was all just a game to him. Killing her was probably easier than brushing his teeth for him. She was just another worthless inferior, another _nothing_, dirt to his feet, worse than scum. In his eyes, he was doing the world a favor by getting rid of her. He was cleansing the world of its _filth_.

I remembered my dream again. I felt like I was in that labyrinth again, meeting dead ends everywhere when all I wanted to meet was Santana. All I wanted to do is to be able to kiss her lips again, to be in her caring arms, to have her whisper comforting and loving words to me. I thought about the options that I had. I could kill myself now and be done with it, but my baby would also die. I could kill myself after my baby is born, saving its life, but dooming him or her to an Aryan's life. Letting him or her be raised by that horrid man, without a mother. Or I could continue to live in misery. Deep down, I knew that Santana would choose the last option for me. She would want me to be with our baby and to raise it to be like us. But how was I to face a life in which I am this man's wife and have no comfort of real love? How was I to face a life without her, Santana, my love, my soul mate, my everything? I knew that I wasn't strong enough to live such a life.

Herr Eberhardt finished his plate, and without another word, stood up and left the dining room. I heard the front door slam and his automobile drive off. I sat in the dining room for a few more moments before getting out of my chair and making my way toward the front door as well. I wanted to at least find her body.

Once outside, it was like all of the feelings that I was holding back in the dining room swept me all at once, at an overwhelming speed. I dropped to my knees on the hard gravel, weeping helplessly, utterly agonized. Hurried sobs left my throat, each one racing the other to leave me faster. My face was washed with tears as I leaned down to the ground, hugging my torso in torment.

I knew, then and there, that I would not be able to live a day without her. The seven months that I spent with her were like a glimpse of heaven. It was still a war, still a crime, still forbidden, but it was heaven. Every touch, every kiss seemed like a God-given miracle. Our fairytale world would never be. We would never get our happily-ever-after. But those seven months were like a peek into the world of Hans Christian Andersen. How was I supposed to go back to hell when I've had a glimpse of heaven?

Suddenly, I heard a shuffle in the gravel behind me. "Brittany…"

* * *

><p><strong>AN: Don't lose hope. :)**


	15. Together, We Can Make Life

When I was little, my mamá bought me a little potted plant—little, but incredibly beautiful. It bore small purple flowers, and had leaves as green as a forest in the spring. Mamá told me, "This is no ordinary plant, mi cielo. This plant holds magic within it. If you sing to it every night before you go to bed, it will continue to blossom. Will you sing to it, cariño?" And when I enthusiastically nodded my head, she handed me the small plant and gave me a reassuring pat on the back. I sang to it every night, the same bedtime lullabies that Mamá would sing to me. Mamá would watch me sing to it, and hum along to the tune, brushing her fingers through my hair. I remember how close I'd bring my face to the plant, and almost whisper the song to it. How I'd spread my small hands around the pot, and watch it intently, scared to miss any moment when a flower bloomed. Mamá would giggle at my dedication to the plant. But it kept me company when I was alone. She would work long hours, and leave me by myself in the apartment or hotel that we were living in at the time. But when I had my plant, it wasn't so lonely anymore.

Summer came, and my plant began to lose its beautiful purple color. The leaves began to turn brown, and I ran to Mamá, shrieking that we needed to take it to the doctor because it was dying. Mamá stroked my hair and said, "Sometimes, mi niña, we try our hardest, but we still don't achieve what we want. But you want to know a little secret? This plant gave life to other plants, and to animals, and to people. Isn't it wonderful, what nature and magic can do? Like a woman, princesita. A woman can grow another human being in her body. Her womb serves as a shelter for the fetus until it is ready to come out and meet the world. Her body prepares the fetus, feeds it, allows it to develop in safety. And just like a woman, Santana, your plant gave life."

I remember how I raised the plant incredulously before me, unable to believe that it gave life to someone. "Who did it give life to, Mamá?"

The way she smiled at me then will forever be etched in my memory. Such a soft and loving smile. It made me feel safe and trusting. She stroked her hand across my face and said, "Your plant gave life to a human, mi vida." She motioned at her belly. "It gave life to your baby brother."

That was one of my most precious memories, when she told me that it was thanks to my plant, my singing, my nurturing, that I would have a baby brother. I remember the excitement that filled me as Mamá's belly grew. A little constant flutter at the bottom of my abdominal area. The same excitement that filled me now, when Brittany's belly was so large that it looked like she was about to pop.

She was lying in my arms when I remembered the plant. Her hands were clutching onto my arms, never willing to let go again. It had been two months since she thought that she had lost me, but those few hours in which she thought that I was dead broke her. Never in my life did I regret doing something more than I regretted leaving the house that night. I remembered how I found her kneeling with her face to the ground, crying so hysterically that she could barely breathe. I remembered how her sobbing only grew stronger when I slipped my arms around her and she turned to cry into my blouse. She was so panic-stricken that she couldn't even form a coherent word. She just cried and cried, her arms hugging me so strongly that it hurt. I felt so much hate for myself at that moment. Hate for myself and my carelessness. My carelessness that could've brought on an early labor, that endangered her life and our baby's. It seemed like hours before she calmed, but she still wouldn't let go. Ever since that day, when she held onto me, it was always desperately, as if I was about to disappear again. I explained to her that being confined in the house made me so anxious that I couldn't take it anymore. I explained to her that all I wanted was a breath of fresh air, that I never, _never_, meant to leave her. I apologized countless times, and kissed her, and tended to her. I did everything I could to show her that she and our baby were the only reasons for me to live. She accepted that, and she believed it, but now, two months later, she still seemed a bit shaken up. I cursed myself, again, for being so reckless.

That night had been one of the most terrifying of my life. I felt fear beyond anything that I had ever felt down at the camp, even though my life was constantly in danger then. It wasn't me that I was frightened for, it was them. Brittany, and the baby that was to be born to us. I remembered how the man walked toward me. I suspected that it was Herr Eberhardt—I couldn't know for sure, because I had never seen him before. Whenever he was home, I was down in the basement. But he seemed to be the man that Brittany always described with such hatred and loathing. I hid behind the tree, praying to God and Mamá and Ángel for something to distract him, or for him to decide that there's no one there. He came closer and closer, almost at an arm-length away from the tree, when there was a noise on the front porch. He snapped around to find Ora with a broom, apparently about to clean the porch. She froze in place when she saw him, a frightened expression on her face, and then hurried back inside. He turned his head once more toward my direction, paused for a bit, and then made his way back around the automobile to the house.

I turned my back to the tree and let myself slide down it, a mix of tremendous relief and utter dread overcoming me. I heard Herr Eberhardt slam the front door behind him and lock it, and I knew that I would have to remain outside, soundlessly, until he left again in the morning.

The night was chilly, but not anything unbearable. I didn't dare leave my tree, in fear that he was looking out the window from inside. I sat there, hugging my arms around me, until the sky began to turn lighter and the stars disappeared into the sun. I suspected that it was about nine in the morning when I heard the front door open and slam again, and a man's boots marching down the front porch and through the gravel to the automobile. I remained completely still, holding my breath so that he wouldn't think of searching behind the tree again. To my immense relief, I heard him enter the automobile, and soon enough, the car was speeding down the hill. I was about to leave my space behind the tree when I heard someone walking through the gravel, and then fall in it and begin to sob in torment. I hurried around the tree to see that it was Brittany, and I knew the reason for her tears. It was my fault, all my fault.

Now, two months later, we were sitting hugged on her bed in our favorite position. I looked down at Brittany to find that she had been peering up at me this whole time. I smiled softly and kissed her warm lips, lingering on them for a moment before pulling away again to gaze at her. Her head leaned on my right shoulder and her hands were gripping onto my arms. Her blue eyes almost glowed as she looked up at me, loving and adoring. But there was something else in her eyes. Something that had been there since that night—fear. Fear of losing me. I tightened my arms around her and nuzzled my head next to hers.

"How are the cramps?" I asked quietly.

She closed her eyes and her hand glided down to her massive belly. "More frequent. I think we're close."

I moved my hand down to her belly as well and laid it over hers. She squinted her eyes in pain as another cramp hit her. I moved our hands across her belly, as if to soothe it.

"Will you tell me a story?" she groaned, her eyes still shut.

I stroked my hand across her forehead and through her hair. "What kind of story?"

She rolled her head into my hand, her breathing calming. "One written by Hans Christian Andersen," she smiled gently.

I chuckled warmly and leaned down to kiss her again, this time for a little longer, letting the heat of her lips spread through mine. After pulling back again, I rested my cheek on her head and said, "There's one that's always been very special to me. It's called _The Angel_."

For a moment she squinted her eyes again, her body tensing as another cramp hit her. I looked at her, worried. The cramps were in fact getting more frequent. How long till our baby was out?

When it passed, she opened her eyes to gaze up at me. "So what does the story tell?"

I caressed Brittany's belly for a few moments before beginning the story. "It's about an angel whose job it is to collect little kids up to heaven when they die. And when he does, he also collects flowers to bring up to God's garden in heaven. After doing so, he flies with the child in his arms over all of the places that were dear to the child before taking him up to heaven. So one day, a child died and the angel came down to earth. He flew with the child over all of the places that he loved most, stopping on the way at a nearby garden to collect flowers for God's garden. After picking some roses and buttercups, the angel spotted a little broken pot that held a withered plant. The angel picked up the broken pot, and as he flew with the child up to heaven, he told him the story of the potted plant. It belonged to a boy that had been sick his whole life. So sick that he could barely walk across his room, let alone venture outside. He longed to see the outside world, to walk in a forest, to smell fresh air. But the boy was sick, and he was unable to do so. One day, the neighbor's son brought him a beautiful little potted plant. The sick boy came to love the plant dearly, and cared for it as well as any gardener would for his flowers. But one day, the boy died, and the little potted plant was left to die as well in his room. When the lodgers had moved out, they threw it carelessly among garbage, inconsiderate of the fact that the plant brought the boy much happiness." I paused for a moment.

"But how did the angel know the story of this plant?" Brittany asked, her eyes shining like a child's.

"Well, that is exactly what the boy asked the angel as they soared up to heaven. The angel smiled at him and said, 'Because I was that boy. The plant was mine.'"

"Really?" Brittany gasped, and I giggled at the fact that here she was, about to be a mother, and yet she was so enthusiastic about a fairy tale. I nodded and then nestled my face into her neck, kissing it. "I know why this story is special to you," she said quietly.

I hummed a note of question against her skin. She moved her left hand to caress my hair. "Because of Ángel. Because you want to believe that he's in heaven, that he really did become an angel, just like that boy."

I sighed into her neck and closed my eyes. She was right, of course. She knew me best. Ever since Ángel died, I was always looking for some sort of signal, or sign, anything to show that he was part of the greater afterlife. It comforted me to think that he might be watching over me from heaven. Sometimes I even dared to think that it was him who sent Brittany down to the camp on the first day we met. It was him who made sure that I was cared for, that I was loved so ardently. I thought about how Mamá told me that my potted plant gave Ángel life, and how the potted plant in the story gave the child happiness. It was almost like Hans Christian Andersen could see into the future.

Brittany groaned, her hand balling up into a fist. I raised my head to look at her. "Brittany, the cramps are really close together now… Don't you think we should call a doctor?"

"Call one of those Nazi dogs who experiment with lethal drugs on people like you? No, thank you," she grunted, her face contorting in pain.

I bit my lip. "Then who's going to deliver the baby?"

Brittany was quiet for a few moments, trying to steady her breathing. "Ora worked as a midwife before this whole rotten war began."

"Alright," I gripped her shoulders. "I'll get her."

I eased myself out from under Brittany and laid her gently on the bed, kissing her briefly before turning to the door and hurrying out of the room. I skipped down the stairs two at a time and dashed into the dining room, where Ora was cleaning the table. "Ora!"

She turned to me, her eyebrows raised in question. "Brittany's cramps are very frequent now. I think she may already be in labor."

"How frequent are they?" she asked, dropping the towel on the table and pulling off her apron.

"Um…" My eyes darted around. "I'd say every five minutes."

Ora nodded quickly. "Yes, she's in labor. If her cramps are only five minutes apart, then she's been in labor for a few hours now." She dashed into the kitchen, and returned a few moments later with two small glass bottles that looked to be medicine bottles and a spoon. She hurried past me and up the stairs, and I followed her, panic-stricken. Brittany was right where I left her, taking deep breaths, her hands stroking her belly. Ora eased Brittany's legs open, pushed her dress up, and carefully slipped off her undergarments. She raised her gaze to Brittany's face. "Your water hasn't broken, has it?"

Brittany shook her head, and Ora nodded in agreement. "Your opening isn't large enough for us to begin yet. There needs to be a space of ten centimeters." She grabbed the bottles and spoon, which she had dropped on the bed earlier, and placed them on the nightstand.

"What are they?" I asked, motioning to the bottles.

"Morphine and aspirin," Ora said, adjusting the pillows beneath Brittany's head. "I'll give her morphine right before we begin and aspirin after the baby is out. The pain is usually too great to bear without pain relievers."

I nodded, sitting down beside Brittany on the bed and weaving my fingers through hers. She smiled up at me, her eyes still twinkling like before. "We're going to be mothers, San."

I let out a breathy and incredulous laugh. Never in a million years did I think that I was going to be a mother to an Aryan baby. That I was going to fall in love with an Aryan, and hope to spend the rest of my life with her. It seemed so unlikely, so surreal, and yet so, so very concrete.

Ora looked again between Brittany's legs. "This may take a little while. Santana, will you check every ten minutes to see if there's a ten-centimeter gap, and call me when there is one?"

"Wait, how do I know if there's a ten-centimeter gap?" I asked, feeling my heartbeat quicken.

"Just put your hands together, thumb to thumb, and that's ten centimeters for you. The width of your finger is about one centimeter." She raised her eyebrows to see if I understood.

I nodded quickly, squeezing Brittany's hand in mine. Ora left us alone in the room, and I turned back to Brittany. I pulled her dress up over her belly, which truly looked like it was about to burst, and began to place feather-light kisses all over it, something that I knew Brittany loved. Her right hand was still intertwined mine, and occasionally tensed as another cramp hit her. Her left hand brushed through my hair, and I turned my head to find that she was looking down at me, heavy-lidded with pain and love. I leaned slightly down the bed to see how large her opening was. It looked to be about eight fingers long. I raised my gaze back up to Brittany. "Almost there, Britt. Almost there."

She smiled softly and tugged on my hand so that I would come up to her. When I did, she wrapped her hands around the back of my neck and pulled me down into a lazy kiss. Her tongue grazed my lips, and I opened them to send my tongue to dance gently against hers. She inhaled sharply, and I knew that she was having another cramp, but she didn't release my neck. I breathed in her intoxicating scent, felt her warm face against mine, and I knew that this was her way of showing me how much she wanted me to be this baby's mother with her. She pulled my top lip into her mouth and sucked delicately as her hands caressed my upper back and neck. After a few more moments, she released me, her lips pink and her eyes loving beyond belief. "You know something?" she said softly.

I shook my head, kissing the hand that was on my cheek. She smiled gently and closed her eyes for a moment. "I love you. So much that it's painful. You're the love of my life, the only one for me, and I've never been happier than I am now, when I'm about to give birth to the child that we'll raise together. I have no regrets about coming to Auschwitz, marrying that man, suffering his presence, because it led me to meet you, and I wouldn't give that up for anything. I feel so blessed to have your love, and all I can ever think about is you, and the joy you bring me." She stroked her thumb across my hand. "I love you."

I let out a shaky breath, so moved by her words that I could feel tears pooling up in my eyes. I squeezed her hand and smiled. "Take that love, your love for me, and multiply it by a thousand. That's how great the love I feel for you is."

She chuckled quietly, but her face soon turned pained again as another cramp tensed her body. I slid down the bed again, only to see that her opening was in fact widening. I held my hands in front of it. Ten fingers exactly. A jolt of panic ripped through me as I gasped, "You're ready."

Brittany nodded calmly. When she saw that I wasn't moving because of my terror, she said, "San, get Ora, please."

I stared at her, wide-eyed, before coming back to my senses and sprinting out of the room. I found Ora in the living room, and I didn't have to say anything—she could tell by the look on my face that Brittany was ready.

We hurried up the stairs, and Ora quickly grabbed a few towels from the bathroom before following me into Brittany's bedroom. Brittany was much more relaxed than I was, given the fact that she was the one having the baby, not me. I settled on the bed beside her as Ora opened the morphine bottle and poured a bit of its contents into the spoon. She held it up to Brittany, who swallowed it with a look of disgust on her face. Then she turned to me and smiled. "I'm fine, San, relax."

That was one request, I'm afraid, that I was not able to follow. My breathing became unstable as Ora moved around the bed, spreading Brittany's legs further with her hands. She looked up at me. "Put some more pillows behind Brittany, she needs to sit further up."

I dashed to the closet, where I found two pillows, and sprinted back the small distance to the bed. Brittany chuckled at my panic as I placed the pillows behind her back and settled back down on the bed, my hands clutching her right one.

"Okay, Brittany," Ora began. "You can start pushing."

Brittany closed her eyes and breathed in deeply before scrunching her face and pushing. She released, taking in another deep breath before pushing her hardest again. Her face reddened with each push, and I could see sweat beading up on her forehead. From down the bed, Ora said, "Good, Brittany, good. I can see the head."

Brittany panted, her hand squeezing mine relentlessly. I was torn between wanting to be on this side of the bed to provide her comfort or moving down the bed to see our baby come out. I decided to do both. Without letting go of her hand, I inched down the bed, craning my neck to see what was going on. I gasped.

It was one of the most magical things that I had ever seen. Golden hairs were visible on the baby's head, which filled Brittany's opening completely. Brittany continued to push and squeeze my hand, and the baby slowly came out. First the forehead, then the eyes, then a nose, then a tiny little mouth. I had never felt so much excitement as I did at that moment. The baby looked like Brittany, even with its eyes closed and its face somewhat scrunched up. Brittany grunted and released again, panting harder than ever before. I turned to her. "Just a little more, Britt. The head is already completely out. Just a little more."

I could see how exhausted she was, so I made my way back up the bed and kissed her forehead, which was a bit salty because of the sweat. "Push, Britt. It's almost out."

She took in another deep breath and scrunched up her face again, the hold on my hand so powerful that I felt like it would break, but I didn't care. I found myself scrunching up my face too, as if I could feel the baby come out of her. We were always in it together.

I looked down the bed to see that Ora was gently pulling the baby out. Once it was completely out, Brittany released, panting, and opened her eyes. Ora was holding a beautiful baby boy in one hand, and cutting the umbilical cord with scissors that she had sanitized. The baby cried instantly once it was cut, and both Brittany and I let out breathy, relieved laughs as Ora moved around the bed and handed the baby to Brittany. I helped her pull her dress over her breasts, and after she guided him to one of them, the baby stopped crying and began to drink her breast milk.

I cradled my right arm around the baby and my left around Brittany, happier than I've ever been. We had a breathtaking, strong, healthy baby boy, and nothing else mattered. I stroked a gentle finger across his cheek. "Welcome to the world, little one."

I glanced at Brittany, who was looking down at him and leaning her head on my shoulder. "What should we name him, Brittany?" I whispered in her hair.

She was quiet for a few moments, watching as his little hands grabbed onto her breast. Then she looked up at me, smiled joyously, and said, "Hans."

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_Spanish_

"Cariño" – My love or my dear.

"Mi cielo" – My heaven or my sky.

"Mi niña" – My girl.

"Mi vida" – My life.

"Princesita" – Little princess.


	16. Fury

**A/N: This is not a pleasant chapter, and I apologize for that, but it was crucial for the story. It's from Herr Eberhardt's point of view.**

* * *

><p>The sound of my alarm clock ripped through the silent house, and I quickly sent my hand flying down at it to shut it off. I straightened up in my bed, blinking away the useless sleep, and peeled the blanket off of me in one quick move. I walked to the mirror and looked at myself. I had achieved everything that I wanted in life. I had an Aryan wife—although the woman was pathetic and vomit-worthy—and the best job in all of Nazi Germany. I was the head of one of the Third Reich's finest and largest extermination camps. Thousands of worthless animals were slaughtered in this camp, and there were many more thousands to come. I was not a person to be excited—but the thought of hundreds of thousands of those arrogant nothings dying under my watch, by my power, excited me.<p>

I smiled at myself through the mirror as I thought of their faces when I do my monthly checks down at the camp. Each one mortified that he or she will be the next one killed. It was wonderful to have the power to pull out one of them, make him beg for his life, and then shoot him in the head. It made me almost peaceful to see them drop to the ground, blood pooling around them, their faces frozen in terror. I would always chuckle a little, then raise my gaze back to the crowd of animals before me, their faces all just as petrified as the one of the person whom I had just killed, and pick out the next to be killed. If I was just driving through the camp, I'd make it a habit of running over any imbecile who was stupid enough to stand on the path. Something about the sound of their bodies as they were crushed under the wheels of my Mercedes calmed me, and it had become sort of a frequent hobby.

After brushing my teeth, shaving, and putting on my uniform, I left the room and made my way down the hall instead of toward the stairs. The door of my wife's room was open, and I peered inside. She was sleeping soundlessly, her left ear to her pillow and her hands held together before her. I liked her best when she was sleeping. It was the only time I could stand her. I shook my head and turned to the room opposite of hers—my son's room. I walked in, careful not to make too much noise with my boots. He was sleeping peacefully in his crib. I stood over him for a little bit, examining him. He was two months old already, and the more he grew, the more he looked like Brittany. It was disappointing to know that he wouldn't grow up to look like me, but I was comforted by the thought that I would raise him to act like me. I wouldn't let Brittany teach him kindness and honesty and every other useless thing that she believes in. This child would grow up to be like me.

I let Brittany keep the name Hans. I myself didn't have a name prepared, and Hans was as good a name as any. My only hesitation was giving Brittany what she wanted—I tried my best never to do that. My failure to think of a better name, however, granted her the choice of it.

I left my son's room and made my way down the stairs. Early morning light shone through the living room windows as I made my way to the kitchen, checking to see if my breakfast was ready. When I entered, the cook jumped and quickly turned around, a spatula shaking in his hand. His eyes remained wide with fear as I walked around him to see that my breakfast was still cooking. I turned back to him. "Why isn't my breakfast ready on time?" I uttered quietly, my unrelenting eyes fixed on him.

He mumbled a few words, his eyes to the floor. I slapped him hard across the face, and he grabbed the counter to keep from falling. "Next time you decide to sleep more than you're allowed to, you'll end up in the crematorium. Understood?"

He nodded quickly, his cheek still crimson from the slap, and turned back to cooking. I straightened my uniform and made my way back out to the dining room, disgusted with my servant's actions. Dirty Jew. They're all the same. He should be thankful that he's alive. Him and that good-for-nothing maid.

He was out with my breakfast about five minutes later, and was a bit alarmed to see that I was still standing. He hesitated a bit, and when he saw me cock an eyebrow, he swallowed audibly and hurried to place my food on the table. After that, he quickly disappeared behind the kitchen door. I smiled to myself at the fear that I created in him.

I wouldn't be caught dead complimenting a Jew, but I did have to admit one thing—his cooking was excellent. I swallowed one bite after another until my plate was empty, then gulped down the orange juice that he had set for me on the table. After this, I left the house, feeling accomplished that the day hadn't even started and I had already managed to frighten one worthless inferior.

I sat in the driver's seat of my black Mercedes, turned on the engine, and began to drive the automobile down the dirt road that led to the camp. When I reached the gate, the young Nazi soldier who was always standing at it hurried to push it open for me and saluted me as my car passed through. I caught a glimpse of his eyes—olive green and shining with worry and fear. I shook my head as I continued to drive through the camp. He was too young to understand the importance of working in this camp and serving Deutschland.

Regrettably enough, there were no idiots standing in the way of my Mercedes today, and therefore no one to run over. The prisoners were standing about with small bowls that were probably filled with sad excuses for soup, which is exactly what I wanted. They were like dominoes as my automobile passed through the camp. They would duck their heads in turn as I neared, afraid that I would engage in one of my other hobbies, which was shooting at them through the open window as I passed. I wasn't in a mood for that today, however. I had a meeting in Kraków, and I couldn't be late for it. There was no time for games.

The drive to Kraków was dull and tedious, as always. The meeting was to be held at the Nazi headquarters, a tall building in the center of the city. When I arrived, I gave my keys to the guard standing outside of the building so that he would park my car for me, and walked confidently inside. I found myself in a grand entrance hall with a marble staircase leading up to the second floor. Aldous Von Richter was standing by the staircase, and a cold smile spread across his lips as I wandered toward him. "Richart! It's been a while. Word is you're a father."

I let a forced smile appear on my face. "Yes, I've got a boy."

"Congratulations, congratulations. A son is always better." He patted me on the back. "How's your wife?"

"She's fine," I said curtly.

"Just fine?" His eyes twinkled dangerously. "Isn't she proud to be continuing the Aryan race?"

I clenched my jaw, quite aware that I was stepping on thin ice. "Of course."

He stared unyieldingly at me for a few more moments before his infamous heartless smile made its way back to his face. "Well, then. Let's start the meeting, shall we?"

He led me out of the grand hall, and I sighed silently. Aldous Von Richter was famous for his backstabbing. He may have made me First Commandant of Auschwitz, but he can just as easily send the Gestapo after me. One wrong move and I would disappear. Although I couldn't blame him—if I had his power, I'd make anyone who crossed me disappear like they never existed.

We entered a large meeting room, and Nazi officials were standing about, chatting. When Von Richter stepped in, they all pointed their hands toward the ceiling and said, "Heil Hitler."

The meeting was slow and frustrating. Von Richter wanted to bring more prisoners to Auschwitz, ignoring my insistence that we had too many already for our guard force to handle. After two hours of cautious bartering, we settled for increasing the amount of prisoners that we sent to the gas chambers, making space for the new prisoners. It was a compromise, but it would do.

Once the meeting was over, I scooped my jacket off of the chair and began to slide my arms into it. I was thinking about Katharina, the girl I was about to spend the rest of my day with, when I felt a little tap on my shoulder. I turned around and grunted in disgust. It was Frieda, a repulsive soldier with oily black hair who used her red lipstick much too excessively. She was one of the commanding officers at the camp. How a woman had even gotten into her position in the SS was far beyond my knowledge. She smiled and looked me up and down. "So…" she began. "How's the girl?"

I leaned away from the stench of her breath and rolled my eyes. "Who? My wife?"

"No, no, the girl that your wife had gotten for you last year from the camp… Or is she—not with us anymore?" She chuckled throatily. "Your wife just wasn't enough for you, was she? You had to have the gypsy from the camp, too."

I stared at her, waiting for her to break into laughter and say that it was all a joke. What the hell was she talking about?

But she didn't. Her eyes turned questioning, and I knew that I would look like a fool if I didn't know what my wife was up to. "I don't think that's any of your business, Frieda."

"I could make you a happy man…" she trailed her finger down the front of my uniform. I slapped it away, gave her one last hateful glance, and walked out of the room, my mind racing. Brittany brought a girl from the camp? Under my very nose? Impossible.

I had forgotten completely about Katharina until I reached my automobile and found her waiting for me, leaning on the black doors. I motioned for her to get away from the car, and she made her way to me. She tried to hug me, but I pushed her off and said, "Not today."

"But—" she began, her eyes wide with confusion.

"No but's!" I roared. "I said not today!"

She stumbled back and I opened the door of my Mercedes, got in, and slammed it closed. I could feel my face reddening with rage as I speeded out of the parking lot, almost running over a young Polish couple in the process. It would be easy enough for Brittany to hide a person in the house…probably in the servants' quarters, given the trust that she held for those vile Jews. The gypsy would be free to roam the house during the day, when I wasn't there. Suddenly everything made sense. The time I thought someone was in Brittany's closet…or a few months ago, when I was sure that I heard a sound outside in the gravel. Before this revelation, you could almost think that the house was haunted by a ghost. Now it all made sense. I remembered the fear on Brittany's face the morning after I had heard the sound in the gravel. She must have understood the triumph on my face to be a sign that I had killed her gypsy friend, when in fact I just felt victorious because I had won a great amount of money in a gambling game the night before.

Was the gypsy really just a friend to Brittany? Would Brittany risk everything, her wellbeing as well as our son's, for a friend? Or was there something more between them? I inhaled sharply and tightened my hands on the steering wheel at the nauseating thought of my wife in bed with another woman, and an inferior one at that.

I punched the steering wheel in fury. How long had I been sharing my wife with this gypsy girl? How long has her skin been dirty, impure? She was an Aryan. How _dare_ she hold a relationship with an inferior behind my back? Who did she think she was?

I tried to calm my breathing. I had to find out the truth before letting anger take over me. For all I knew, I could've been enraged about something that was not real. For all I knew, Frieda could have been a liar among the many other unattractive things that she was. It may have just been a sad attempt to talk her way into my bed. I couldn't make speculations such as my wife cheating on me with an inferior woman without a basis for those speculations, other than the word of that repulsive swine. I had to find the facts before I acted.

By the time I reached Auschwitz, I was as quiescent as can be. Even if there was a gypsy hiding in my house, all I'd have to do is shoot her in the head and this would all disappear. I had the power here, not them. I would not be played like a pawn in a chess game.

As I drove up the hill to the house, I realized that it was the sounds that my automobile made that alerted them to my arrival. Nevertheless, I drove until my car settled before the front porch, and opened the door. I wanted to obtain information before catching them in the act.

Sure enough, when I entered through the front door, the gypsy, whether real or not, was nowhere to be seen. Brittany was sitting at the dining room table with Hans in her arms. She turned to me when she heard me enter the house, her face slightly alarmed as she swayed her body back and forth to keep the baby calm. I eyed her suspiciously as I walked into the dining room, looking for any guilt in her expression, but there was none. Either she was innocent or she felt no remorse for doing something as abhorrent as sleeping with a dirty, worthless inferior woman.

As soon as I sat down opposite her, the cook appeared through the kitchen door, carrying our lunch. I paid no attention to him as he set the plates before us, hurrying to leave the room immediately after. The maid scooped Hans out of Brittany's arms, and Brittany turned to her plate, glanced up at me for a brief second, and then began to eat. I stared unyieldingly at her for a few more moments before making my decision—to search for any evidence of the crime that I suspected to have been committed in her room. I told the maid to leave my dinner on the table and that I would be back shortly, and made my way calmly up the stairs. I could see Brittany's puzzled face follow me until I disappeared from her view.

I walked into her room, closed the door silently behind me, and looked around. I searched for any sign that the gypsy had been there, but there was nothing in plain view. I opened her closet, but there was nothing suspicious in there either, just clothes that she wore on a daily basis. I closed it and turned, my eyes scouting for any hint. I decided to check in the drawer of her nightstand, and was delighted to see a diary lying in it. It must have held everything that I was looking for.

I opened it and saw a child's writing on the first page. It must have been a gift from Brittany's sister. I continued to flip through it, stopping only briefly to catch a few sentences, all of which incriminated my wife. _I went down to the concentration camp…I took her back to the house with me…I love her…_ I clenched my jaw and continued to flip through the journal. _I kissed her…We made love…She's the love of my life, Anna, and I'm going to raise my baby with her… _I threw the diary back into the drawer and slammed it closed, rage building up inside me again. I had two options—one, find the gypsy and kill her now, or two, wait until tomorrow to catch them in the act. At the moment, the first one seemed much more appealing. But I wanted to see for myself what they did every day while I was gone.

I stayed in the room for a few more moments, waiting for the fury to melt away, before making my way back down the stairs. Brittany was still eating, and I joined her at the table and began to eat as well without a word.

That night, I couldn't sleep. For some reason, I was feeling hot and bothered, sexually. I considered satisfying my need with Brittany, and then remembered that she had engaged in sex with an inferior. She was damaged beyond repair.

The morning after, I did everything as if I was about to leave the house for business. When I was eating breakfast, Brittany came downstairs with Hans in her arms, a bit surprised to see that I was still in the house. She glanced cautiously at me as she entered the dining room, sitting down in the chair opposite of mine. She was silent as she watched Hans, his blue eyes looking back up at her. Had my son grown to love the foul gypsy, too?

After I finished my breakfast, I grabbed my things and left the house. I entered my vehicle, and with one last glance at the house, began to drive down the hill. When I was about halfway down, I slowed the automobile and pulled off to the side. I imagined how I'd walk in on them holding my son together, or even kissing. How I'd grab the filth by her hair, drag her outside, point my gun to her head, and shoot. She only provided trouble, and needed to be rid of immediately.

I waited in my Mercedes for about half an hour before starting to make my way back up the hill, on foot. I wanted to give them enough time to feel safe, and to do what they'd usually do.

It took me about ten minutes to reach the house again, and I walked to the front door, trying to be as quiet as possible. When I opened it, I found the living room to be empty. I advanced in, careful not to make any sounds. What I heard when I reached the base of the stairs made fury ignite in me once again like a lit match in a forest.

Soft moans echoed from upstairs, and quiet mumbles of the name "Santana." I slipped off my boots, placed them in a side closet so that they wouldn't be seen, and silently climbed the stairs. Extremely cautious not to make a sound, I walked down the hall and found, to my astonishment, that the door of Brittany's bedroom stood slightly ajar. She must have left it open so that she would hear Hans if he began to cry.

The door was open just enough for me to see exactly what was happening in the room. A dark-skinned woman was lying naked on top of my wife, her face buried in my wife's neck and her hands cupping her breasts. Brittany's head was thrown back, her left hand clutching the gypsy's hair and her right running up and down the gypsy's body. I knew that I should make my presence known, watch their faces become pale with horror, and drag that _thing_ off of my wife. But there was a bulge growing in my pants. I realized, with extreme embarrassment, that this scene aroused me rather than disgusted me.

My breath catching in my throat, I dropped silently to my knees and forced my pants and briefs down as the gypsy moved down my wife's body, its mouth now latched onto one of her breasts. Brittany's moans grew more passionate, more heated, and her body began to rock back and forth. Crouching so that I wouldn't be seen, I began to slide my hand up and down my penis, my arousal melting into excitement.

In the room, the gypsy's head was now hovering above my wife's sex, the latter's legs bent and opened widely. The gypsy muttered a few words before dropping its head and beginning to lick my wife's core. Brittany grunted, her legs quivering, and sent both of her hands to grip the filth's hair, her hips beginning to rock into its face. It moaned quietly as it continued to lick her vagina, and gripped onto her thighs to steady them. My hand quickened.

This should have been nauseating to me, not arousing. But there was something about the way Brittany arched her back, so devoted, so trusting of the thing beneath her. She was never like that with me. She never enjoyed what I had to give her as much as she was enjoying what the gypsy had to give her now. Not to say that I enjoyed it much. I preferred sleeping with whores than with her. At least I got some kind of reaction from them. She was like a lifeless doll. Never made a sound, never showed any emotion but the tears that slid down her face.

But not now. Now I was seeing a Brittany that I had never seen before. She was ardent and joyful and, I admitted reluctantly, in love. In love with scum, dirt of the earth, a complete nothing. What woman in her right mind would fall in love with something like _that _and not with a wealthy, successful, powerful Aryan?

My hand still working feverishly and my breath becoming uneven, I turned my attention back to the room. Brittany couldn't keep quiet anymore. Her moves were jagged and desperate, her hands clutching its head as close as possible to her. She was crying the gypsy's name, and it only hummed back in response while it continued to work fervently. At last, Brittany's body began to shake as she ripped through her orgasm, something that had never been presented to me before. I was never able to make her reach her climax.

My breath hitched, and I realized, alarmed, that I was about to come. I let go of my penis, held my pants up, and hurried silently to the bathroom, where I continued to rub above the toilet until I emptied into it. I breathed heavily but quietly until I calmed.

As I pulled my pants up and fastened my belt, I came to a decision. I would let them finish what they were doing today, allow them a last goodbye. And tomorrow morning, before Brittany awoke, I would pull that _filth_ outside and grant her a bullet through the head.

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Deutschland" – Germany.

"Gestapo" – The secret police of Nazi Germany.

"SS" – Schutzstaffel, the paramilitary force of Nazi Germany.


	17. A Nightmarish Reality

Do you ever feel like dreams are a blessing? For a few hours, you escape your world and enter an entirely different one, all of your own imagination. You can be a fairy in a far-off forest, a mermaid in the deep ocean, a princess saved by her knight in shining armor—or better, you can be the knight in shining armor saving the princess. You know that you're dreaming, you know that it'll be over soon, but you enjoy it greatly while it lasts. You bid the dream creatures goodbye—the unicorns, the elves, the fairies, the princesses, the swans—and they wave you farewell, shouting words of praise and adoration until you wake up and you're back in the world that you so wanted to escape. But there's a comfort that keeps you strong. You know that as soon as you lay your head on the pillow the next night, you will reenter that world, or a completely different one, but one better than your real world nonetheless.

But sometimes, the blessings of dreams given to you by angels are snatched and morphed into nightmares by demons. Sometimes, sleep isn't as comforting as it should be. Sometimes it's restless, full of panicked rolls and cold sweat, and you wake up in the morning disturbed and tangled in your sheets. You sit in bed and think about the things you witnessed, praying that they never become a reality. You have nightmares that involve strange, creepy creatures, but those don't bother you so much. The ones that really bother you, really make it hard to breathe, are the ones that have the chance of becoming real. Those are the ones that have you bolting up in bed, panting as you realize that it was all just a dream.

At the moment, I'm not having a nightmare. I'm walking hand in hand with Santana through a meadow, Hans sleeping silently in my other arm. There's a soft breeze, and yet an odd stillness in the air. As if time has stopped, as if we're completely alone in this dream world. I look around at the tall grass, the emerald leaves on the grand trees, the bizarre but beautiful flowers. Then my eyes land on Santana. I halt in my place, and she turns to me, her eyes questioning. She's…utterly breathtaking. It's like she's glowing in the soft sunlight. A demure smile spreads across her lips as she gazes back at me so adoringly that I feel as if my heart will burst. Suddenly, she turns and lifts a young boy, maybe five years old, into her arms. I notice that Hans is no longer in my arms, and raise my eyes back to Santana and the boy. Wavy blond hair crowns his head, and his eyes, as blue as the sky above us, twinkle shyly. It dawns upon me that this is no ordinary boy—he's my son. My son, held in the arms of the love of my life. I stand back and appreciate the picture before me, knowing that it will only last in this dream. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember where I really live, the war, and the unlikelihood that I will ever see something like this. And just when I am about to reach my hands, to embrace them into a hug and tell them how much I love them, I'm snatched back into reality.

* * *

><p>I blinked a few times and yawned, slowly registering the sounds around me. I faintly remembered being woken up by a very loud noise, but I decided that it was just Hans's crying, which was ringing through the house. I yawned again and slid out of bed, rubbing my eyes as I walked across the hall and into his room. He was hysterical, far beyond any crying provoked by hunger. I scooped him into my arms and began to walk around the room, mumbling words of comfort as I bounced him lightly. His little hands gripped my shirt, almost desperately, as if he feared that I would leave him. I continued to soothe him until he calmed, then began to make my way down the hall with him in my arms. I walked carefully down the stairs and looked around at the empty living room. "Ora?"<p>

There was no answer. I walked into the kitchen, and found breakfast burning on the stove. I quickly turned off the gas, my mind racing with thoughts. Why would Chaim leave the stove on if he wasn't in the kitchen? I walked back into the dining room, gazing around me quizzically. "Ora? Chaim?"

Once again, there was no answer. I stood in the living room for a few moments, Hans cooing softly in my arms, wondering where they could've gone. Maybe Herr Eberhardt took them out with him so that they'd help him with something…but what?

With one last look around the living room, I climbed the stairs and hurried down the hall to Hans's room. I laid him in his crib, kissed him gently on the cheek, and whispered, "I'll be right back, Liebling, I promise. I just want to check a few things."

He looked up at me, his large blue eyes wondering and his hands grabbing at the air above him. For a moment, I remembered my dream, and the little boy—our little boy. I stroked a finger across his cheek, kissed him again, and left the room. Without really noticing what I was doing, I put on a navy-blue dress and hurried down the stairs again. I decided that I wanted to share my concerns with Santana, so I made my way down the basement stairs and into Ora's room—only to find it empty as well.

I felt my heartbeat quicken, I felt the dread coming, but I took in a shaky breath and ascended the basement stairs, closing the door quietly behind me. Maybe she wanted a breath of fresh air again and was locked outside like last time.

I opened the front door, too afraid to call out her name in case Herr Eberhardt was in hearing distance. I suspected that he was, because his automobile was still parked in front of the house. I closed the front door behind me and wandered cautiously down the porch and to the gravel, my eyes darting around. It was quiet—too quiet. Like the dream I had, except it couldn't be any more different.

I walked carefully around the automobile, glancing down the hill. Where were they? I turned my head slowly, still with a numb feeling of uncertainty and fear building up inside me. I didn't want to jump to conclusions like I did last time. But when I looked to my left, behind Herr Eberhardt's Mercedes, there was no room left for doubt.

I stood completely motionless, my eyes wide with shock and utter horror, unwilling to believe the sight before me. Ora and Chaim were lying in the gravel, their eyes round and glossy, bullet holes clear through their heads. Blood was still pouring out, pooling around their bodies, and fresh tears glistened on their faces. The loud sounds that woke me up were not Hans's crying—they were gunshots.

I knew what this meant. I knew it, but I couldn't will my body to move. It was like all of my nightmares were coming to life at once. I wanted to wake up, to know that this wasn't real. I wanted Santana to wrap her arms around me, to rock me back and forth and whisper, "It's okay, Brittany, it's okay. It was a dream. It was all just a dream."

But I didn't wake up. Santana didn't wrap her arms around me, and Ora and Chaim were still lying dead in front of me. My mind was screaming at my body, telling it to _Move! Move! She might still be alive!_, but my body wouldn't listen. It wouldn't do anything, not even breathe, as if it gave up on living. My mind was riddled with so many thoughts that I found myself closing my eyes, trying to organize and understand them. There was one pushing all of the others to the sidelines, one that had to be heard—find her. As that thought rang through my mind, impossibly loud, I opened my eyes, took one last glance at the dead bodies of the people who served me so faithfully, the people whose deaths I caused, and began to sprint down the hill.

I wasn't sprinting for even two minutes before my leg caught on a rock and I flew down the road, landing hard on my right arm and continuing to roll until I was finally able to stop my body. By the time I stopped rolling, I was sobbing hysterically and uncontrollably. Not because of the pain of the fall, but because of the terror that had taken over me. Nothing had ever felt more real than the possibility of losing her. Every noise I heard sounded like a gunshot, every pain in my body, mental or physical, caused by the thought of finding her dead. The thought of losing her, which was so much more real than ever before. It was no longer some distant idea, some distant nightmare that I feared would become a reality. It was here. It was now. I knew, as I pushed myself off of the ground and began running again, slightly limping, that there was a better chance of finding her dead than alive.

And then what? Before, Santana was all I had to live for. The solution would have been easy—commit suicide, and not have to suffer the pain of her loss. But I had a baby now. I had a son, and I would never be able to leave him behind, motherless and in the hands of that horrible man. But what of the fantasies? What of Hans Christian Andersen and his fairy tales? What of the world that we hoped to have, where Hans would grow up to know that he had two mothers and two mothers only? What of our plans to escape, to travel far, and to find safety? What of our happily-ever-after? So many hopes and dreams would be lost. If Santana was dead, how was I ever to live happily? I could not imagine joy and freedom without her. It was all so meaningless, so pointless, without her.

Dead or alive, she wouldn't want me to kill myself. I knew that for a fact. She would want me to raise Hans, and to tell him stories of the other mother that he once had and how I fell in love with her. But would Herr Eberhardt ever let me near my baby after what I had done? After deceiving him and cheating on him? I doubted that he would even keep me as a wife. He would throw me out with everything I didn't need, and nothing of what I really needed—my family. My lover and my son. He would take those from me without an ounce of remorse. And then I really would have nothing to live for.

After what seemed like an eternity, I reached the back gate of the camp. It was locked, and Rolf Liepold, the young man that always guarded the gate before, was nowhere to be seen. I rushed to the gate and shook it uselessly. Herr Eberhardt must have taken Santana into the camp for some reason. But where was Rolf? I wondered if he, too, fell under the fire of Herr Eberhardt's rage. If he, too, would be punished, because any fool could understand that he took part in Santana's escape from the camp. After a few more hopeless shakes of the gate, I turned my back to it and slid down, crying in agony. So many lives have been and will be lost because of my selfishness. But the worst of it all was that I didn't regret hiding Santana in the house, when I should've. I didn't regret falling in love with her and spending one magical year by her side. I cursed the world for only letting me have one year with her. What kind of cruel upper being would let us fall in love so devotedly, and then snatch it all away after a single year, right when we began to build our family? Not only would I never see her again, I would never even see her dead body. Where was the fairness that all of the greatest thinkers always spoke of?

I let my hands fall to the dirt at my sides, my eyes swollen with grief. I looked down, alarmed, when my left hand hit metal instead of the ground. It was like someone above heard my torment and wanted to give me a second chance. Rolf's keys were half hidden under a thin layer of dirt, as if they fell out of his grip and were kicked to the side. Irrevocable evidence that he was indeed taken as well. I scrambled to my feet, looking at the hole in the gate to see which key would fit. After several frustrating attempts, I finally found a key that would twist in the hole, and I heard a click as the gate unlocked. With some struggle, I pushed the heavy gate open enough for me to slip through, then closed it behind me and dropped the large keys into one of the pockets of my dress, in case I needed them later.

My heart pounded loudly, threatening to crack some ribs, as I jogged carefully past the somber structures. There was not a soul around. An insane thought passed through my mind—that Herr Eberhardt had ordered all of the prisoners to be sent to the gas chambers because of what I did. I shook the thought from my mind as I advanced between the dark buildings, expecting to be shot around every corner I turned.

Suddenly, I heard a faint voice speaking to my left. I suspected it to be Herr Eberhardt's voice. I sprinted toward it, more sure that it was him with every step I took. Finally, I turned a corner, and had to skid to a stop because I almost hit a group of prisoners. They snapped around, eyes wide as they stared at me incredulously. I walked past them and into the crowd of prisoners, snaking around and between until the voice became clear. He seemed to be making some sort of speech.

"You disgusting worms think you deserve freedom? Freedom is a gift given only to the worthy, and you—as I'm sure you know—are anything but worthy. You're nothing but termites polluting the fine wood that is the Nazi society. You need to be weeded out, and you do _not_ have rights. You do _not_ have the right to escape from this camp and decide to live a normal life as this—" I heard a shove and someone fell to the ground. "Revolting _maggot_ did."

Hope filled me once again as I heard Santana's faint crying. She was still alive. I snapped my head around, looking for some sort of escape route. I found, to my surprise, that all of the prisoners around me were staring at me in wonderment. They had cleared a small circle around me, as if afraid that I would pull one out and shoot him in the head like any other Aryan would. Quietly, trying to remain unseen, I advanced further into the crowd, closer to his voice and her sobs.

"Look at her, crying like this is some sort of tragedy. You should be proud to be killed by me, you _filth_. It should bring you honor to be killed by the First Commandant. But I won't let you die so easily…no, you will suffer, here in front of your dirty peers, and they will see what happens to someone who so boldly disobeys the rules. I will not give you the privilege of being shot in the head like all the others. You deserve to be punished for what you did, for daring to think that you are worthy of living like an Aryan. So tell me, _worm_—which foot would you like me to shoot first, right or left?"

Santana's crying loudened, and, panicked, I bolted through the crowd until I was stopped right in front of her. A second too late and with a gasp, I realized that I completely blew my cover.

I took a few moments to register the scene around me. Santana was looking up at me now, a mix of fear and incredulity in her eyes, like the very first day we met. The prisoners around seemed to also have that disbelief on their faces. The woman with the large green eyes, Santana's friend, who was standing about a meter or two to our right, caught my eye for a brief moment. I saw Rolf being held with his hands behind his back by two other Nazi soldiers, and he looked frightened beyond belief. Then, reluctantly, I let my gaze fall on Herr Eberhardt.

His thin lips were white from fury, and, like a bull, he flared his nostrils. After a few moments of silence without taking his eyes off me, he raised his gun and said, softly but dangerously, "I guess a bullet through the head will do."

Faster than he had time to pull the trigger, I threw myself at Santana and shielded her body with mine. I heard a few muffled whispers from below me—"Brittany, get off, get _off_, he'll kill you!"—but I did nothing of the sort. I tightened my eyes closed and waited for the blow that never came.

Instead, I felt myself being pulled off of Santana by three pairs of hands. I struggled as hysterical tears began to stream down my face again, but I was no match for three burly men. Through my tears, I opened my eyes again, to see that Herr Eberhardt was still pointing his gun at the back of Santana's head, his eyes on me. He looked so enraged, to the point of being almost numb with it. "You came down here to save her?" he uttered, just above a hush.

I knew that answering would not be the right choice, so I just continued to sob quietly, my eyes darting between him and Santana, whose eyes were fixed on me. She wasn't crying anymore, as if she was trying to be strong for both of us, as if she had already accepted her death. I raised my gaze back to Herr Eberhardt, whose unrelenting, cold eyes glared at me. "Who do you think you are?" he asked, just as quietly as before.

Tears continued to slip down my face in disorganized streaks. I tried to push forward, but the soldiers were still holding onto me, keeping me bolted to my spot. "Please…" I begged softly.

Herr Eberhardt let out a little sigh of disbelief and shook his head. He fixed his eyes upon his target again and raised his gun. At the height of my panic now, I yelled, "Please! Don't kill her! _Please!_ She didn't do anything—kill me instead, she's innocent, it's all my fault…please—" I bent down with my face to the ground, unable to breathe because of my hysterical crying. "Please…" I begged again as my forehead hit the rough dirt.

A single gunshot rang through the square, and a body fell to the ground.

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Liebling" – Darling or honey.


	18. A Comforting Numbness

Sometimes, when I'm feeling a lot of mental or physical pain, I let a comforting numbness take over me. It feels like you're being blanketed by soft, feathery clouds, except it's not cold like it would be if you really were covered by clouds. But it really does feel like it, because when it happens, I always imagine flying through the sky with birds at my side. The cool wind on my face relieves any pain that I might have felt before, and I can focus on the good things in life—the vast land below me, the lively birds that urge me to fly on, and the clouds that envelop me so warmly, so lovingly. My mother said it was childish and completely immature. She'd become annoyed and angry when my eyes would turn glossy and distant with the numbness. I never thought that there was anything wrong with a colorful imagination and a yearning to escape the pain. Clouds were, after all, much more soothing than reality.

But sometimes, the numbness comes even when I don't want it to. Sometimes I try to yank free, but the clouds are relentless, and they smother me with their comfort and love. The birds chirp happily, completely careless of my shouting and begging. I try to tell them that I _need_ to get back down to earth, that something very important is happening, that I need to find out what the outcome of the situation was. But they're selfish, the clouds and the birds. They shake their heads and giggle delightedly at my useless attempts. And it's then that I just give up and lie in the clouds until they finally decide to release me.

I was feeling that numbness now. I could only register a few things—one of them being that my legs were moving. Sprinting, to be more exact. I could also feel a constant and powerful tug on my wrist. I tried to clear my head, to shoo the clouds away so that I could understand what was happening. I looked at the wrist that was being tugged. There was a hand there, knuckles white from strain, seemingly pulling me to wherever it wanted to go to. I wondered for a moment what my business with this hand was, and then it occurred to me that it might belong to a body. I let my eyes wander up the arm that was linked to the hand, and then to a shoulder, then to a neck, and then to a head full of dark hair. I let my eyes drift back down the woman's neck to her back. A little shocked, I realized that the crimson marks on her dress were made by blood. It seemed like she was drenched in it, and I wondered what had happened to make this woman bleed so badly.

I turned my head to the left, and realized that there was another person running with us. A man dressed in a Nazi uniform. What did a Nazi want with us? He had chestnut hair, and when he turned his head to me, his expression terrified, I saw that he also had olive green eyes. He didn't seem like what I remembered Nazi soldiers to be. He was too young, too pure, too kind to be one of them.

And suddenly, we weren't running anymore. There was a large gate in front of us, and the woman and the soldier were frantically shaking it, maybe trying to force it open. They didn't seem to be succeeding, and really, what were they compared to a tall metal gate? Maybe they gave up now, because they stopped shaking the gate. The woman turned to me, and I realized that she had countless tears flowing down her face. She was saying something hurriedly, obviously frightened out of her mind, but I couldn't quite understand what it was that she wanted. I did catch one word, though, and it rang through my mind—_Keys._

"Keys?" I asked, sort of rhetorically. The woman's expression turned confused, maybe because of the word, or maybe because of the way I was acting. She licked her full lips and looked at me uncertainly, tears still flowing on their own now down her cheeks. I thought for a moment, then said, "I have keys."

The soldier's eyes widened, and the woman grasped my hand and asked desperately, "Where?" Her voice sounded very distant, which seemed odd since she was only centimeters away from me. I looked down at the pocket of my dress, and without another word, the woman reached in and grabbed the keys. She handed them to the soldier, who quickly chose one and slipped it in the keyhole. The gate clicked open, and he and the woman pushed it open before the woman clutched my hand again and urged me to start running with her.

As we continued to sprint, the clouds finally began to release their confining grip on me. I slowly realized that the soldier was Rolf, and the woman—she wasn't just any woman, she was my Santana, and she was alive. I remembered the square, and Herr Eberhardt, and the gunshot. I noticed again the blood on her back, and panicked as I realized that she might have been the one shot. Another jolt of panic passed through me right after I realized this, when I realized something else—we were running away, away from the camp and away from our baby. "Santana—" I gasped. She turned to me but didn't stop pulling on my hand. "Santana—Hans. We have to get him—" I stopped in my place, forcing her to stop, too. Rolf turned to us, his eyes frantic and questioning. "We have to go back. We have to get him, Santana—"

"Brittany, we can't, it won't be long before they realize that we escaped," she panted, placing a hand on her hip and slightly leaning down.

"But—" I looked at her incredulously. "Santana, he's our _son_—"

"Brittany, if we go back now, they'll find us and kill all three of us," she said, and seemed just as frightened and panicked as I felt. "We'll find him again, we'll go back and get him, I promise. But we have to make sure that we're safe first."

I didn't want to make sure that we were anything first, I wanted my son, but when Santana began to tug on my hand again, her expression almost begging, I complied. I couldn't believe that we were willingly leaving our baby behind, but I could understand Santana's reasoning. I could understand it, but my motherly instincts couldn't. And what if we couldn't get him back? What if we never got the chance to rescue him, and he'd grow up to know that his mother deserted him? He'd grow up to hate me, and to hate people like Santana, and he'd be so different from the boy that Santana and I wanted to raise together. But I knew that neither of us would relent until we got him back. Even if it got us killed in the process.

We ran for about thirty more minutes until we couldn't anymore and we had to stop to rest. We were still in the empty fields that surrounded Auschwitz, so when we saw a farm, we hurried behind the barn and dropped to the ground, panting. It took me a few minutes to catch my breath, but when I finally did, I turned to Santana and said, "Were you shot?"

She raised her gaze to me, a look of pain passing through her eyes, and shook her head. "Then whose blood is that?" I asked quietly.

Tears began to fill her eyes again. She was silent for a few moments, maybe trying to gather enough strength to answer. Finally, she said, "Simka's."

"Simka…?" I bit my lip, trying to remember. "The one with the green eyes?"

Santana closed her eyes and nodded. "She jumped in front of the gun to save my life," her voice cracked and tears began to stream down her cheeks again. She buried her face in her arms.

"How did we escape?" I asked, a little ashamed that I was too dazed to remember what had happened.

When she didn't raise her head back up, Rolf, who was sitting next to her, leaning on the barn wall, answered quietly, "After she was shot, there was a lot of chaos. The prisoners began to run around, and the soldiers tried to get everything in order, so no one noticed when we slipped out. It was almost like the prisoners were trying to buy us time."

I hugged my knees and leaned my head on them. "Well, I'm just glad it wasn't Santana who was shot."

She raised her head, her eyes incredulous, almost glaring at me. She was quiet a few moments before uttering, "You don't get it, do you?"

"What?" I asked, surprised and a little defensive.

She shook her head and looked away. "You wouldn't understand," she muttered.

"Maybe if you'd explain it to me, I'd understand," I said, somewhat annoyed.

She fixed her eyes on me again. "Hundreds, maybe thousands, of people will die now because I didn't."

"Prisoners?" I asked confusedly. "But wouldn't they be killed anyway, even if you did die?"

She glared at me again, and it felt like my heart dropped to my stomach. "That's very easy for you to say, isn't it?"

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"It means," she began, her eyes colder than I had ever seen them, "that _you_ don't know what it feels like. _You_ don't know what it's like to pray every day for the Nazis to be defeated, for someone to come rescue you. You don't know what it's like to see your friend, someone you trusted and loved, lying dead in front of you, and knowing that it's all your fault. That she and countless other people might still be alive if it weren't for you. You don't know what it's like to know that you're going to die either from starvation or from a bullet to the head. You were always loved and praised for being who you are. You were never hated the way we were. You were treated like a princess. _You_ were never in any danger."

I stared at her incredulously. "Is it my fault, then, that I was born an Aryan and you were born Romani?"

She continued to scowl at me, her eyes almost hateful. I wondered if they really were hateful, because she was my Santana, and she had never acted like this with me before. I felt fragile and vulnerable. I might've already lost my baby, and now I was losing Santana. I couldn't understand why she was so angry with me, but I also couldn't blame her for thinking that it was my fault—I thought so, too. I hated myself for what had happened, and while I could suffer self-loathing, I didn't think that I'd be able to take it from Santana, nor that I would have to. But the way she was looking at me now… All I could do was hope that she was just so emotional from Simka's death that she wasn't thinking right.

Rolf shifted uneasily in his spot, clearly uncomfortable because of our argument. "Um…" he began uncertainly. "I think we need to get to Kraków as soon as possible. I know someone there who might be able to help us."

Santana ripped her gaze off of me and turned to him. "How will we get there?"

"Um…" He bit his lip in thought. "I think we might have to walk."

"Well, then, what are we waiting for?" she asked bitterly, stood on her feet, and began to walk around the barn. Rolf shot me a hesitant glance, then stood on his feet as well and offered me his hand. I took it and he helped me up to my feet, and we followed Santana around the barn.

Suddenly, we heard a sound behind us. We snapped around to see a tall, thin man, maybe the owner of the farm. But we didn't pay so much attention to his face—we were much more worried about the shotgun that he was pointing at us. He eyed us suspiciously, especially Rolf and his Nazi uniform, and muttered something in Polish before saying, with a very heavy accent, "What do you want with me, Nazis?"

Rolf raised his hands defensively and said, "We're unarmed, sir, and we mean no harm. Please, we'd just like to leave."

The man considered his words as his eyes passed from Rolf to Santana to me. "Odd trio…" he commented quietly. "Running away, are we?"

I felt my heartbeat quicken. This man could gain a lot by turning us in, dead or alive. All it would take was a few bullets and a telephone call, and he'd be swimming in money. I could hear that Rolf was thinking the same thing in his voice when he said, "Please, sir," he motioned at me, "she's a mother."

The farmer let his eyes fall on me for a moment. "Where are you running away to?"

Rolf and I exchanged uncertain glances. Santana, who was standing about a meter behind us, remained silent. I shifted my gaze back to the farmer. His eyes were softer now, and he had lowered his shotgun. "Are you working against the Nazis?"

"Yes," Rolf said confidently. "It's them we're running from."

The man stood motionless for a few more moments, his expression thoughtful. Then it looked like he came to a decision, and he said, "I will drive you wherever you need to go."

All three of us let out sighs of disbelief. "Thank you so much, sir," Rolf closed his eyes in relief. "We need a ride to Kraków."

The Polish man nodded and led us around the barn to an old, red pickup truck. He looked back at us. "You'll have to sit in the back. There's not enough space for all of you in the front."

Rolf climbed in the back and then helped Santana and I get in as well. He looked around him, and then at the farmer again. "I don't suppose you've got a sort of blanket, or anything that we could cover ourselves with so that we're not seen?"

The man nodded quickly, and disappeared into the barn. I glanced at Santana. She settled herself in the corner closest to the front and looked absolutely miserable. I wanted to sit by her and comfort her, but something told me that she wouldn't appreciate that right now. I sat at the opposite end of the truck, thinking that I'd rather she blame it all on me than blame it all on herself, as much as it hurt that she was angry with me. It really was my fault, after all. I was the one who fell in love first. I was the one who wanted a relationship, and wanted her all for myself. And not for a second did I regret it.

The man hurried back with a few wool blankets and threw them into Rolf's arms. "Thank you, sir," Rolf turned to us and handed a blanket to each of us. "We need to lie down and cover ourselves as much as possible," he said as he sat down and demonstrated. "Like this," he covered his whole body and almost his entire head with the blanket.

I sat beside Rolf and did the same. After a few moments, Santana made her way to Rolf's other side and threw the blanket over herself, completely covering her face. I sighed dejectedly.

The ride was bumpy and uncomfortable. The truck was barely wide enough for all three of us to lie down in, and we were pushed against each other every time it made even a slight turn. I kept my eyes open and to the sky the entire ride, trying to imagine myself flying up there among the clouds. Anything to make that horrible pain of Santana's anger and losing Hans disappear.

Finally, after about two hours, the truck came to a stop. We heard the door slam closed, and the farmer came around and said, "We've arrived."

We handed the man his blankets and stood before him one last time. "We can't thank you enough," Rolf said, shaking his hand. "You've probably just saved our lives."

"You make sure to tell those Nazis to get the hell out of my country, alright?"

Rolf smiled reassuringly. "We will, sir. Thank you."

I hurried to the farmer as he adjusted himself in the driver's seat. "Thank you," I said softly. He let a small smile appear on his face before shutting the door and driving off, leaving us in the alley that he had parked in. I turned around to see Rolf gazing past me down the alley and Santana looking at the ground, hugging herself. I felt my heart clench again.

Rolf followed my gaze, and his eyes landed on Santana. He quickly slipped off his jacket and offered it to her. She raised her gaze to him questioningly. "You have all of that blood on your back, people will be suspicious," he explained.

She took it from him and slipped her arms into it. My heart warmed immediately to see how small she looked in his jacket. Her hands were lost in the sleeves and the jacket reached down her thighs. I had that strong urge to embrace her and comfort her again, but when she caught me looking at her, she turned her head the opposite direction and hugged herself again. I dropped my gaze to the ground, a feeling of utter defeat washing over me.

Rolf led us out of the alleyway and to a secluded street. He looked around him, attempting to understand where we were. We walked for about five minutes before he let out a little "Ah!" and motioned us confidently to follow him down a busier street.

As we walked from block to block, careful not to draw too much attention to ourselves, I kept shooting glances back at Santana. She may have been angry with me, but the last thing that I wanted now was for her to disappear, to be snatched or to lose us among the crowd. She seemed to be somewhat numb, as if she wasn't really here, and I wondered if her numbness was the same as mine. I wondered if she was in a better place right now, where her friend didn't die to save her life, and where her lover didn't disappoint her. Maybe somewhere where she didn't have me as a lover at all.

I thought about what she had told me. How I didn't know what it felt like to be the cause of someone's death, and someone who was dear to you. But she was wrong. I remembered again how I had found Ora and Chaim lying dead behind Herr Eberhardt's automobile, and the guilt that had been lurking in my stomach ever since that moment, and will probably stay there for the rest of my life. I hated that Santana was blaming herself for Simka's death when it was really my entire fault. But I came to a silent agreement that if I had to live this past year over again, I would live it exactly the same way I had lived it the first time. When it came down to it, I would choose again to rescue Santana from the gas chambers, even if it meant that her friend would die in the end. Even if it meant that Ora and Chaim would be killed, because Santana was my other half, my soul mate, and I would never be able to live without her. As much as it hurt me to admit it, that was the truth.

I thought about Hans again. There was such a small possibility of rescuing him from that horrid man. We would never be able to return to Auschwitz again. Anyone would recognize our faces there, and we would be caught in seconds. But I didn't know if I'd be able to bear not being with him, not raising him to be my own child. I couldn't stand the thought of my own flesh and blood, my baby, growing up to be like his father. There was nothing to do but pray to whoever was up there for some sort of answer.

The sun had already slipped past the horizon by the time we stopped in front of an old apartment structure and Rolf finally said, "We're here."

We stood there, just looking up at the tall, looming building for a few moments before Rolf stepped forward and pulled open the front door, urging us to go through. We walked up three flights of stairs, and then down a hall until we reached a door with the number nine on it. Rolf held out his fist hesitantly, and then knocked lightly three times.

We stood completely silent for a few minutes, trying to hear if there were any noises inside the apartment. Just when I began to lose hope, the door swung open to reveal a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties wearing a dirty white tank top and boxer briefs. "Rolf?" he asked incredulously, a hint of a Polish accent evident in his pronunciation of the name.

"Bolek," Rolf allowed a small smile to spread across his lips.

The man stood motionless for a few seconds, and then began to laugh uproariously. "Rolf! It's been a while!" He shifted his gaze to Santana, and then to me. "And I see you brought girls…"

Rolf snapped his head to us. "No, Bolek," he said hurriedly. "They aren't for you."

The man's face fell, his eyes still staring hungrily at us. Rolf cleared his throat. "We're in trouble and we need your help."

Bolek finally tore his gaze away and looked back at Rolf. "What kind of trouble?"

Rolf glanced at us uneasily. "The Nazis want us dead kind of trouble."

Bolek shifted his gaze back to us and bit his lip. After a few moments of silence, he stood back and beckoned us in. I let out a little sigh of relief and followed Rolf inside the apartment.

Bolek had three bedrooms in his apartment, one of which was his. He offered the second bedroom to Rolf, and then asked if Santana and I would be okay with sleeping in the same bed. I looked at her, and was about to say, "Absolutely," when she mumbled something about sleeping on the couch. I had to truly hold back my tears at that point.

Bolek gave us some old clothes to change into and said his goodnights, but not before finding any and every excuse to touch us. I wanted to shout at him and push him away, but I knew that he was our only hope, so I kept my lips sealed.

I settled in bed, lying with my back to the door and hugging the pillows. I imagined them to be the clouds that I loved flying through, and closed my eyes and tried to hear the birds chirping. I wanted the numbness to return, to stop this constant pain of Hans being kilometers away and Santana sleeping alone on the couch, but it wouldn't come. It left me to cry alone in bed, miserable and utterly lost.

It seemed like hours had passed, but I couldn't fall asleep. I felt extremely antsy, and every little sound pounded in my ears. So when I heard the floor creak outside of my door, I rolled around frantically so that I was facing the closed door. I had a strong feeling that it was Bolek, and it felt almost like déjà vu.

The door slowly swung open, and I sighed in relief when I saw Santana's small figure. She stood in the doorway for a few moments, but I couldn't see her face because of the darkness. Then she walked carefully to the bed, and without saying a word, settled under the blankets and slung her arm across my chest. I embraced her into me with both of my arms, and when she nuzzled her face in my neck, I felt how damp it was.

She took in a shaky breath. "I'm sorry…" she whispered, and let out a small sob. "I didn't mean it, I just—" she paused, her crying growing a bit louder. "I'm sorry…" She whimpered quietly.

"It's okay, San," I stroked my fingers through her hair and kissed her forehead. "It's okay."

She continued to cry for a few more minutes, and I mumbled words of comfort to her. I thought again about the clouds, and the birds, and the vast land, and it occurred to me that I didn't need them to ease the pain. Santana didn't need her numbness to lessen the aching. All we needed, when looking for comfort, was each other.


	19. A Suffocating Sea

I didn't know when I fell asleep or how long I had slept for, but when I awoke, it was still dark. As my thoughts became clear, I noticed that Santana was still lying in my arms, her hands clutching onto me like her life depended on it. Her eyes were closed and her breathing calm and stable, and she looked so peaceful. If angels existed, then she must have looked exactly like one. I wondered if her whole family had looked like angels; she had already told me that her brother was an angel to her. I remembered the photograph that I saw of her, her mother, and her brother. I could see where her pure, beautiful features came from.

I wondered for a moment why I had been woken up. I couldn't have slept for more than two hours—it was already past midnight when I fell asleep, and now it was still dark. I had this odd feeling inside, a sort of nervousness mixed with utter hopelessness. I knew that this feeling could have only been caused by one thing.

Have you ever felt like you're drowning, or choking, but really you're just sitting still, in safety? It feels like your throat is closing up and just won't open a gap wide enough for air to seep into your lungs. Every time you attempt to take a breath, it's like someone's got a hold on your trachea, a deadly grip that doesn't even leave a centimeter-wide opening. I had this feeling now. I had to fight to keep the air flowing, and I could feel my heart beat madly in my chest. It reminded me of a day in my childhood. A day that seemed so very far away.

My family and I had traveled north from Berlin until we reached the shores of the Baltic Sea. It was the first time that I had ever been on a beach, and I was beyond excited to experience the waves and smell the salt around me. I remembered how I sprinted to the water, shedding my clothes in the process until I was only in a bathing suit, and leaped into the water. It was an amazing sensation, but it was soon cut short by an enormous wave that took me completely by surprise. I remembered how the water twirled me like a ballerina, and how the panic caused me to try to take in a breath when I was still underwater. I remembered the strong taste of salt and the feeling that I was never going to breathe again.

I felt like this now, and I knew exactly why. It was the type of panic that hits you only after you've had time to sit down and think about the situation. Now that I had that time, the dread of never seeing my baby again was entirely overwhelming. It seemed simply impossible to save him. I closed my eyes and attempted to calm my breathing, but it was useless because memories began to fly through my mind, pictures of his face and the way Santana held him like she would give him the world and more if he just asked. The way he'd look up at me with those big, blue, knowing eyes. It was like he could read our minds and feel our feelings. I remembered how we'd take him to my bed and lay him between us, both of us hugging him protectively as we leaned our heads together and watched him sleep. I recalled how frightened I was of being a mother when it was discovered that I was pregnant. And now… Now, I could not imagine a world without our Hans.

My attempts at relaxing were in vain. I was beginning to feel lightheaded now and more panicked than ever. I just couldn't see a way out of the mess that we had found ourselves in.

Suddenly, I felt warm lips on my neck. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

I didn't answer, not because I didn't want to, but because I couldn't find enough air in my lungs to form words. I clenched my jaw closed as a few tears began to slide down my face.

Santana raised herself on her right elbow, her eyes concerned and uncertain. She kissed the tears from my face and brushed my hair back, searching in my eyes for an answer. She continued to place soft kisses all around my face, my nose, my cheeks, my eyelids, my lips, until the choking sensation slowly dissolved into calm and stable breathing. She was kissing my ear now, gentle, loving kisses, and she mumbled, "I swear to you that I will get him back or die trying."

I closed my eyes. She knew me so well that I didn't even have to tell her what had caused this. But her words provoked some concern and fear in me. I knew that she meant them with all her heart, and the last thing that I wanted was for her to be lost as well. I couldn't bear the thought of being left with nothing to live for. On the other hand, I knew that I would never be able to rescue Hans by myself, and even better than I knew this, I knew that Santana would never let me do so. Like everything else, we were in this together. He was our son and we would both save him or die trying.

Santana slipped her arm under my neck and pulled me into her. It was amazing how our roles in this relationship could be reversed so easily. Last night, I was the one comforting her, and here she was, now, doing the same to me. This only affirmed what I had thought a few hours earlier—that all we needed for comfort was each other.

Santana combed her fingers through my hair and kissed my forehead lightly. "What do you say we wash ourselves?" she offered quietly.

I remembered that she still had Simka's blood on her back, and I thought about how uncomfortable and miserable that must have made her feel. I nodded and we untangled ourselves from each other.

When we walked out of the room, we found Rolf sitting on the living room couch, flipping through some papers. He raised his gaze to us when he heard our footsteps. "Good morning," he said with a little sad smile.

We returned his greeting and glanced around. "Where's Bolek?" Santana asked curiously.

"He left to check some things for us. We'll need forged papers and aliases to leave the country."

"Leave?" I felt my breath catch in my throat again, and the feeling of panic return.

Santana squeezed my hand in hers and met Rolf's eyes. "We're not going anywhere without our baby."

Rolf let out a little sigh that told us that he was expecting just this reaction. He looked back up at us. "You are aware that we can never return to Auschwitz, correct?"

"Maybe…" I searched my brain for a possible solution, but the feeling of helplessness had returned. Suddenly, something occurred to me. "What if we enter through Birkenau, one of Auschwitz's other camps, instead of through the main camp? The soldiers there have never seen our faces."

Rolf and Santana considered this idea for a few moments. "There _is_ a path that can lead to your house from Birkenau…" Rolf said slowly.

Hope began to fill me once again. "Then it is possible?" I turned my gaze to Santana, who looked somewhat uncertain, then back to Rolf, who had the same expression on his face.

"It would be dangerous, Brittany," he began. "Too dangerous, in my opinion. Your husband will be expecting us to do just that—return to Auschwitz to retrieve your son. I'm sure he knows that you won't relent in your plan to rescue the baby."

"Well, if he does know this, then he's right," Santana said defensively.

Rolf sighed and closed his eyes. "Returning to Auschwitz would be playing right into his hands. It would be like walking into a trap, most likely in the form of an ambush that'll kill all three of us."

"Then what do you expect us to do, just give up and never see our son again?" Santana asked, exasperated.

Rolf bit his lip and dropped his gaze. "I don't know," he admitted quietly.

We stood there in silence for a few uncomfortable minutes, trying to think of any way out of this. After no such solution presented itself to us, I sighed and said, "We'd like to wash ourselves. Do you think Bolek would mind?"

Rolf shook his head and lifted a bag that sat beside him. "I bought you some clothes to change into last night."

"Thank you," I said, taking the bag into my hands and following Santana to the bathroom. There was a little window in it, and I noticed that it was still dark outside. Had Rolf even slept?

I closed and locked the door behind us. "He means well," I said, sort of to Santana and sort of to myself.

Santana lowered her eyes to her hands, which were fidgeting nervously with the large men's shirt that she was wearing. "I know," she said finally.

We waited until the bathtub was entirely full with warm water, then stripped out of our clothes and climbed in. I leaned forward until I was lying on Santana's chest, and she wrapped her arms around me. We were quiet for a little while, letting the heat of the water and the closeness of our bodies relax us. I remembered a certain memory, so precious and yet one of the most frightening moments of my life. "Do you remember the first time that we took a bath together?" I asked, tracing small circles with my finger on her shoulder.

She took some time to think about it. "A few weeks after the first time that we had made love, you wanted to take a bath, but I was afraid that it would hurt the fetus, so we filled the tub with lukewarm water. We must have stayed in there for four hours."

I smiled softly at the memory. "There was one time before it," I began uncertainly, "but I don't think that you remember it." I raised my gaze to her, and she looked at me questioningly. I laid my head back down. "After I brought you up to the house from the gas chambers. Rolf left his post and helped me to carry you up the hill, and when we finally arrived at the house, he told me that you needed to be washed and cleansed of the poison. So I brought you upstairs and filled the tub with water and washed you. You were barely conscious." I paused, waiting to see if she remembered. When she didn't say anything, I assumed that she didn't remember. "I thought I was going to lose you," I mumbled, holding her closer.

She remained silent, just stroking her hand down my back and then back up. Then she kissed my hair and said, "Just one of the many times that you've saved my life." She found my hand and interweaved our fingers. "But more importantly, you gave me something to live for. What's the use in life when it serves no purpose? You gave me love when I needed it most, and you gave me the most beautiful baby boy in the world."

I smiled into her skin. "He really is beautiful, isn't he?"

"Just like his Mami," she kissed my hair again. We were quiet again for a few minutes, Santana caressing my body while I traced patterns on her skin. When she spoke again, it was just above a hush. "We'll get him back, Brittany."

I lifted my head so that I could see her expression. She brought both of her hands to my face and brushed them down my cheeks, smiling sadly. Her eyes were comforting, but there was something else in there. I knew that inside, she was still in a bloody battle of emotions. Her friend's death was not lost from her mind, and leaving Hans behind had hurt her just as much as it had hurt me. There was still that horrible guilt, the very same one that I felt. Her guilt for Simka's death, and whoever else was to die because she escaped. My guilt for Ora and Chaim's deaths, and for everything she felt guilt for, because it was really all my fault. But the greatest guilt of all, I knew, for both of us, was the fact that Hans was not with us now. It was the sort of guilt that washes over you like an entire sea, at an overwhelming strength, suffocating you completely and leaving no room for any thought but the desire to overcome that guilt, and to fix what was broken—to save our little boy.

I didn't think that I'd ever be able to express how thankful I was at that moment for the strength that she showed. I knew how difficult it must have been for her, but she knew that I needed her to be strong for both of us, and she complied without the slightest complaint or hesitation. She gave me the comfort of knowing that no matter what, we'd be together.

We stayed in the bath for about another hour until we heard Bolek enter the apartment and start speaking to Rolf. After we drained the bathtub, dried ourselves, and slipped on the clothes that Rolf had bought for us, we entered the living room to find the men on the couch, bent over a pile of papers. When he saw us, Bolek stood up and said, "Ah! Good. We need you to come fill these out. Just some basic information, hair color, eye color, height, weight. Then we need to go to the forger's apartment, where he'll take your pictures and create the fake documents. Come, now, we don't have the entire day."

Filling out the first document had proven quite easy, for it really did only ask for basic information. The next documents, however, were not as simple. It was just like the Nazis to ask for the complete story of your life, where you were every year and what you were doing, who your parents were, your grandparents, even your great grandparents. It was their impeccable meticulousness that made them so efficient and successful.

It took us a few good hours to think of backstories for our new identities. Our plan was to declare that Oskar Nacht, Rolf's alias, and his wife, Klara Nacht, my alias, were in Poland on important Nazi business. Conveniently, Nazi business that could not be discussed with the petty soldiers who would likely question us. Since they had planned on staying in Poland for a few months, Oskar and Klara brought their Spanish maid, Eva Vargaz, with them to care for them. It was a solid backstory, but we still had not come to a decision on how we would use it. To leave the country, or to return to Auschwitz.

The walk to the forger's apartment was spent with apprehensive glances around the streets and the worries of coming face to face with Nazi soldiers, who would surely know that we were fugitives. I wondered if our pictures had been distributed to all Nazi personnel by now, and if they were all out searching for us. After what we had done, I didn't doubt that to be a possibility.

The forger, a middle-aged, balding man who smelled strongly of alcohol, greeted us at the bottom of his apartment building. Thankfully, he didn't ask too many questions, such as why we needed fake documents or even who we really were. He was very efficient in his work. He quickly took our pictures, then disappeared into the darkroom in the back of his apartment to develop them. We waited quietly on the couch, careful not to make too much noise. Santana and I had come to an agreement that we would not act as lovers when in public—it would bring much attention to us, not to mention the fact that the Nazis also put homosexuals in concentration camps. It would only have negative consequences.

Even though we weren't truly in public now, Santana and I were still cautious not to show our feelings for each other. We couldn't really trust anyone, and if the forger hadn't demanded any information of us, then he surely would rather not know. I thought that keeping his name to himself and knowing as little about us as possible was some kind of personal insurance for him; if any of us were to be caught, we would not know enough about him to lead those brutal Nazis his way.

It took a little while for the photographs to develop. Once they did, the forger returned and began to create the fake documents. It was quite impressive, really. He had all of the right stamps, as well as the utilities to make the papers believable. A few hours later, we left his apartment, shaking his hand and saying our thank you's, with our new papers in hand. We were no longer Rolf, Brittany, and Santana, but Oskar, Klara, and Eva. It was quite laughable, really, how easy it was to break through the Nazis' iron grip on rules and laws.

Just when our spirits were slightly lifted, they quickly dropped again to the bottom of our stomachs and lingered there as crushing fear. We were about to turn a corner when we saw two young men in Nazi uniforms speaking to each other heatedly and walking our way. Silently and completely panicked, we hid in the entryway of the nearest building, flattening against the wall and praying to God that they wouldn't see us.

As they turned the corner, the soldiers' words became comprehensible. "What do you think they'll do to his wife once they find her?"

My breath hitched, and I could hear Santana hold her breath beside me.

"Well, I don't know, how bad is her crime?"

"They say that she hid a gypsy prisoner from the main camp in their basement for an entire year. Right under his nose!"

"Why on earth would an Aryan try to save a gypsy?"

To our utter dismay, the soldiers stopped walking and stood a little before the entryway that we were hiding in became visible. I felt the same feeling that had enveloped me in the early morning, of being suffocated by the salty water of the Baltic Sea. I struggled to keep my breathing stable, and Santana gripped my hand tightly, warningly, but also to pacify me.

"Well, they say that they were…you know…"

"Wait, wait. Are you saying that the First Commandant's _wife_ was having an affair with a _female_ gypsy?"

"Well, that's what the soldiers who witnessed the incident say. I don't know how reliable their word is."

"Wow. Has word reached the higher officials yet?"

"Last I heard, they've already sent a new officer to be the First Commandant of Auschwitz. Eberhardt's career and reputation have been destroyed. He's out for blood. They sent him and his baby back to Berlin."

"He has a _baby_? Wow, this is some scandal. And the wife and the gypsy just slipped out, again, right under his nose?"

The soldier laughed. "Something else, isn't it? One of the most feared men in Poland and he can't even keep his own wife in line."

"It really is something. Listen, we'd better report back to the headquarters. Remember what happened the last time we were late?"

"Yes, I do, and I do not want to repeat that again. Come."

We held our breaths again as the soldiers hurried past us, completely oblivious to our presence. Almost in unison, we let out sighs of relief. I turned to Rolf and Santana. "They're in Berlin. We have to find a way to get to Berlin."

Bolek gazed at us, his eyes thoughtful. He met Rolf's eyes. "There are rumors of an underground railroad system that smuggles escapees from Auschwitz to other places in Europe. I know someone who might know more about this."

Rolf nodded curtly and turned to us, his eyes questioning. I glanced at Santana, and I could see that the same thought that had been passing through my mind was passing through hers—we'd do whatever it took to rescue our son.


	20. True Love Is Irreplaceable

**A/N: For those of you who don't know, Naya has a tattoo on her wrist that spells the Hebrew word "**אהבה**," pronounced "ahava," which means "love." I thought that it would be kind of neat to incorporate that a little into the chapter and into Santana's life, although not as a tattoo. Anyway, enjoy! :)**

* * *

><p>When Simka was taken to Auschwitz, she was torn away from her lover, a young man by the name of Amir. She had told me stories of her memories of him almost every night before we'd go to sleep. She'd describe her days with him when they were adolescents, how they grew up in the same town of Germany and suffered the same hatred and belittling because of their Jewish faith. She told me how they used to sneak out into the orchards during the night and walk, hand in hand, between the fruitful trees. He'd pick apples and oranges and peaches off of those trees, and they'd take shelter under the leaves and eat them until they were either stuffed or fell asleep in each other's arms. Whenever she spoke of him, her face lit up and her green eyes shone with childlike enthusiasm. He wasn't just her lover. He was the love of her life.<p>

Simka mainly spoke Yiddish and German, but she also knew some Hebrew, of course, as did many of the Jews in Europe. There was a phrase that her mother would always recite, and Simka herself said it many times during our days at the camp. "Le'ahava amitit ein tachlif," Hebrew for "True love is irreplaceable." She'd repeat it again and again, especially when times were difficult. She always told me how one day I'd find my true love, and that I'd know how veritable that phrase was.

The thing that amazed me the most about Simka was that she never lost hope, as so many others did, including me. She was always optimistic, no matter what. Amir, her lover, was also taken to Auschwitz, and they were separated during their arrival at the camp. He was taken to Birkenau and she to the main camp, and she never heard from him again. She had no way of knowing if he was killed, or if he was still alive and thinking of her. Just the uncertainty would've driven anyone else to madness. But not Simka.

What made her so different from everybody else was her unpredictable nature. When I spoke to her for the first time, I was sure that she was sarcastic and pessimistic. She was, in fact, sarcastic, but not pessimistic at all, which was a very odd and intriguing combination. She reminded me of a novel that my mother had read to me when I was young, called _Pollyanna_. Pollyanna was a little girl who had lost both of her parents and was sent to live with her rather stern aunt, but she was nevertheless optimistic about absolutely everything. She had a game that her father taught to her called "The Glad Game," where she would attempt and succeed at finding the brighter side of every situation, even if it was well hidden in the misery. Simka wasn't exactly like this, but every night, she'd fall asleep with a smile on her face and great hope for tomorrow. She'd joke, "Tomorrow, the British will come," "Tomorrow, the Americans will save us," "Tomorrow, the Nazis will surrender." They were jokes, but I knew that at the bottom of her heart, she had hope for those events to take place. She had the hope that all of us had lost a few days after we arrived at the camp.

"True love is irreplaceable," she'd mumble to herself, with the tiniest of smiles spread on her lips. To her, this phrase was her way to express her hope that she'd one day be reunited with Amir. And she believed with all her heart that she would.

And now? Now she really would be reunited with the love of her life, just like she had always known she would. In heaven.

* * *

><p>Now more than ever, I knew how true that phrase was. Brittany was lying on top of me, her face hidden in my neck and her fingers playing with my hair. We were occupying the backseat of an old, clattering automobile that was taking us from Kraków to Opole, where we would be spending the night at a safe house. Rolf was sitting in the front seat, a hat on his head so that he'd be less recognizable, and we were told to lie down in the back so that we wouldn't be seen. We had new identities now, but we preferred not to be asked for our papers in the first place, and especially not by Nazi soldiers, who would surely know our true identities. We didn't know if photos of us had also been distributed to the general public, and we decided not to risk it by showing ourselves too much.<p>

The mental wound caused by Simka's death was not forgotten, nor was it healed. No matter how many times I was told that it wasn't my fault, that she jumped in front of the gun, and that I couldn't control her actions, I always blamed myself for the way she met her end. Simka—kind, loving, giving Simka—who knew that I had finally found my irreplaceable true love, ended her life so that I'd have another chance with mine. As infinitely grateful as I was for her actions, I would never be able to forgive myself for what happened that day.

Simka's life was not the only one on my conscience. I remembered all too well how that monster put two bullets into Ora and Chaim's heads as if they were rabid dogs that had to be rid of. I remembered how Ora and I woke up in utter panic when we heard heavy boots coming down the basement stairs, how our door was flung open and he stood there with the most terrifying facial expression that I had ever seen in my life. How he ordered Chaim and Ora to follow him as he pushed me up the stairs and out the front door. I remembered praying that Ora and Chaim wouldn't obey his commands, that they'd run out the back door and escape, but for some reason that will never be known to me, they followed. Perhaps they knew that even if they did escape, they had very little chance of remaining hidden. Who would hide two Jews under the callous reign of the Third Reich? They wouldn't have had a Nazi soldier's help as we did. Maybe they knew that they would die either way, and preferred to be over with it.

He never loosened his grip on me. He ordered Ora and Chaim to kneel behind his car, and with his free hand, aimed his gun at them. I remembered how silent they were the entire time. No protests, no begging. They simply followed his orders and kneeled on the ground, tears rolling down their faces, but completely mute. Their eyes were still open when he shot them.

He grasped my hair in an unyielding fist and began to pull me down the hill. When I tripped and fell to the ground, he didn't stop, simply continued to drag me through the dirt by my hair. He never said a word.

The entire time, I was praying for Brittany to stay oblivious to that morning's events, at least until after I was killed. I faced the fact that Hans was going to lose me as his mother, but I was not willing for him to lose both of his mothers. Brittany had to stay alive, no matter how much it hurt her to be without me. I wasn't sure that, when faced with my death, she would think rationally and of Hans. It was imperative that she would, for his sake. He was our child, and we couldn't let him grow up to be like his horrendous father.

When we arrived at the camp, the prisoners were already rallied up at one of the larger squares. Herr Eberhardt must have given orders to his soldiers beforehand. He dragged me until we were at the center of the mass of people, and began his abhorrent speech.

When Brittany revealed herself, it felt like the entire world dropped on my head, and when she jumped on me to shield me from his gun, I wanted to scream at her and kick her away, anything so that she wouldn't be killed. But Brittany, being Brittany, would give her life to protect mine, just as I would give mine to protect hers. True love is irreplaceable.

How many more people died that day because I had been selfish enough to hide in the First Commandant's own home? How many more people were killed because we fooled him once again and escaped? How many more people were slaughtered because I had fallen in love with the enemy's wife?

Too many, I feared. Herr Eberhardt would have to have killed thousands of prisoners for it to make a difference to him. He must've known that his time as First Commandant had come to an end, and murdered as many prisoners as he could in the little time that he had left. He had to leave his mark.

I tightened my arms around Brittany, and I could feel her smile into my neck. She raised herself up on her hands, glanced at the front seat to see that nobody was looking, and sneaked a little kiss on my lips before lowering herself and burying her face in my neck again. I smiled affectionately. As much as it hurt that so many people died because of our love, this love was worth more to me than anything else in the world. Anything else except for Hans.

I had lost track of time, but when we finally arrived at Opole, it was already dark. We were dropped off at a house on the outskirts of the city, and Rolf quickly thanked the man who risked his life by driving us before beckoning us to come after him into the house.

The old Polish couple who owned the house were two of the kindest, sweetest people I had ever met. They introduced themselves as Feliks and Halina, and when we entered their home, we smelled the delicious aroma of the dinner that they had cooked especially for us. It seemed that their house was a regular safe house for escapees, and my heart warmed immediately when they told us the number of people who had stayed with them. Fifty-three, including us. Fifty-three lives that they had saved.

After they had served us our food and joined us at the table, they began to tell us about the city of Opole and their memories of happier days.

"It used to be such a beautiful place, Opole," Halina recalled, a heavy Polish accent evident in her words. "When we were young," she smiled at her husband, who clutched her hand and squeezed warmly. I felt my heart skip a couple beats. What I wouldn't give to grow old like this with Brittany. The most fortunate people in the world were those who had found their true love and grew old with them, just as Feliks and Halina did. I glanced at Brittany and found her gazing back at me, and I knew that she was thinking the exact same thing. Our lips lifted into loving smiles simultaneously.

What if it was possible? What if it actually happened? What if we rescued Hans, came out alive, escaped from Europe, and lived happily ever after like we always wished we would? What if we were able to watch him grow into a handsome, gentle, kindhearted man? What if we had grandchildren?

Halina spoke again, and I was brought back to reality. Reality, where those wishes had such little chance of being granted. "Now," she shook her head miserably, "now all you see are Nazis and weapons and violence. First the Great War, and now this. The Germans will never stop."

We chewed in silence for a few minutes, pondering the weight of her words. The Germans certainly did seem unstoppable at this point, and it didn't look like anyone was coming to our rescue, although Great Britain, the Soviet Union, and the United States had already declared war on them. But if the Germans had been defeated once before, was there a chance of it happening again?

"It's nice to see a young couple in love, especially in times like these," Halina said, and I looked up at her, only to blush deeply when I found her eyes jumping between Brittany and I. I heard Brittany clear her throat, and turned to see that her cheeks were crimson as well. Halina smiled sweetly. "We had been told who you were and why you were escaping before you were brought here. And we are not disapproving. Love is love, after all, isn't it?" she turned to Feliks, who nodded with a gentle smile and squeezed her hand once more.

I smiled hesitantly. It still felt so foreign when people were not hateful of our lifestyle. I had never heard of or met a person who had homosexual feelings until I realized that I was such a person. Being tolerant of homosexuality was one thing—declaring your approval of it as Halina and Feliks had just done was completely different, and something only a handful of people would have done in such times as these. I thought about Ora, who had also acted like this. Maybe acceptance came with age for some people. People who had known what it was like to really be in love.

Halina gave us some clothes to change into for the night, and after Brittany and I had washed ourselves, separately, we were led to the bedroom that we were to sleep in. Brittany climbed into bed, and I closed the door and turned off the light before slipping under the blankets beside her. She rolled into me and hugged me with one arm, and I leaned my head on hers and closed my eyes.

I was still awake when she began to sob. I knew why she was crying, and I wanted to cry just as badly because of it, but I held back my tears. Brittany needed me to be strong for her. But being separated from Hans was really starting to be too much to handle.

She sobbed for a few minutes, and I just held her as closely as possible and stroked my hand down her back soothingly. After she had calmed a bit, I felt her warm lips on my neck, trailing tender kisses up to my jaw until she reached my lips. She kissed me passionately, her soft tongue slipping in and out of my mouth and her right hand delicately grasping my hair. I was a little surprised when I felt her left hand on my sex. I hadn't given any thought to intercourse since everything fell apart and Herr Eberhardt found out about us. I thought that maybe Brittany needed to feel that she still had me even though she didn't have Hans, and this was her way to prove it to herself. This was her way of finding comfort.

She let her fingers wander lightly up and down my sex, over the nightgown that I was wearing, and it wasn't long before I broke our kiss and clamped my thighs together, breathing heavily. Brittany, whose face was still soaked with tears, gently pried them apart again and let her hands glide down my body until they were clutching the nightdress and slowly pulling it over my head, leaving me in nothing but undergarments. She pulled her own nightgown over her head and climbed on top of me, kissing down my neck and to the crevice between my breasts. Her mouth finally landed on one of my nipples, and she slipped it into her mouth, her warm tongue passing over it in slow, tender strokes, completely unhurried and utterly loving. Her left hand returned to my sex, but this time slithered under my undergarments to cup me directly, not rubbing but just letting her hand immerse in the dampness. I closed my eyes and threaded my fingers through her hair.

She moaned quietly into my breast and began to gently rock back and forth, rubbing the heel of her hand on my clitoris and using my thigh to relieve her own tension. I sneaked a hand between us, slipped it beneath her undergarments, and began to slowly rub two fingers on her clitoris. She continued to suck on my nipple, affectionately, almost yearningly, making a silent, indisputable claim that she'll always be mine and I'll always be hers. For a brief moment, I remembered Simka again, and the phrase that she'd always recite, and I knew that the meaning of that phrase had never been more real than it was now, with Brittany lying on top of me and kissing my breast as if it was the last thing she'd ever do.

Her rocking quickened a bit, which caused our hands to rub against each other more forcefully. With my free hand, I delicately pressed on her chin until she released my nipple from her mouth, and guided her up to meet my lips. Her eyes, still somewhat swollen from the crying, were ardent and cherishing as she leaned down to catch my lips in hers. She sighed softly into my mouth, and I knew that, like me, she was trying her best to remain quiet. There were other people in the house, and while they were all approving of our love, we did not want to be caught in the act.

We continued to kiss even as Brittany's rocking turned desperate and wild, trapping each other's moans in our mouths and breathing heavily in unison. Brittany's free hand was tangled in my hair, and my free hand on her hip to urge her to sway faster. We were both whimpering by now, which was the only alternative to emitting loud moans. After a few more rolls of Brittany's hips, I hit my climax, breaking our kiss and breathing heavily to the side, but making sure to keep my fingers held tightly to her clitoris. She reached her orgasm shortly thereafter, convulsing gently and letting out the tiniest of gasps before relaxing her muscles and collapsing on top of me.

We lay motionless for a couple of minutes, our breathing gradually returning to normal and our hearts slowing to their regular tranquil tempos. Brittany kissed my neck softly, and lingered on it for a few moments before she whispered, "Thank you."

I wrapped my arms around her, so tightly that we almost molded into one, and I thought about how I never wanted to let go of the girl who had turned my world from somber grays to vivid colors.

* * *

><p>I was torn from my dreams when I heard a soft knock on the door. By the pale light that was shining in through the bedroom window, I could tell that it was only early morning. After a few more blinks and a yawn, I was fully awake and realized that both Brittany and I were still nude. Her left arm was stretched across my chest, and her left leg straddled both of mine protectively. She looked so peaceful, and I was just about to wonder how long we'd be able to remain in this position when a second knock sounded on the door.<p>

"Just a minute," I called quietly, and gently pried Brittany off of me. She mumbled a few incoherent words and buried her face in the pillow as I pulled the blankets over her, tucking them around her and making sure that her bare body would not be seen. I quickly slipped on the forgotten nightgown and made my way to the door.

When I opened it, I found that it was Rolf who was knocking. "Our ride is here," he explained as his eyes shifted to a sleeping Brittany. "Could you wake her, please?"

I nodded curtly, and closed the door when he turned away. I quietly walked to the bed and leaned over Brittany, placing a tender kiss on her cheek. "Britt?"

She licked her lips briefly and slowly opened her eyes. I let her recover from her sleep for a few more seconds before saying, "Our ride is here, Britt. We need to be ready in a few minutes."

She nodded and sat up, rubbing her eyes. We were ready after about five minutes, and entered the living room with our few belongings in hand. Feliks and Halina both hugged us warmly and asked us to be safe. It was sad to leave them behind—they felt like the grandparents that I never had. Rolf, Brittany, and I thanked them from the bottom of our hearts for all of their kind help and for risking their lives for us and many others, which they responded to with sweet, bashful smiles and the assurances that they'd continue to risk their lives because that's what was right to do in their opinions. With heavy hearts, we said our last goodbyes and left the house.

The man who was driving us was just as kind as Feliks and Halina, and offered us blankets in case we were cold in the backseat. We took them gratefully and entered the automobile, lying down the way we were in the previous car ride, with Brittany on top of me and her face buried in my neck, and the warm blankets on top of us.

This man was supposed to take us from Opole to Liegnitz, a city well within the annexed territories of Nazi Germany that was about halfway from Kraków to Berlin. Brittany and I made sure we were comfortable enough for the long ride ahead.

We began to slow down after about an hour until we finally came to a halt. Brittany and I turned our puzzled gazes to the front seat, and saw that Rolf was turned to us, his eyes worried. "We'll need to hide you in the trunk," he said apologetically. "There's a blockade ahead, and Nazi soldiers are checking the automobiles. We cannot risk it."

We quickly slipped out of the backseat and walked around the car to the trunk, which the man who was driving us held open. It was small—too small for us to lie side by side, so Brittany climbed in first and I after her, facing her. Rolf pulled the blankets out of the backseat and tucked them around us, making sure that we were entirely hidden, and then both he and the man put all of their belongings on top of us to make sure we were fully concealed. After a few seconds they closed the trunk, and Brittany and I were trapped in complete darkness.

It was a little hard to breathe, but not anything unmanageable for the short time that we were to be in there. For a brief second, I remembered the darkness in the gas chambers after the doors had been closed and how they began to let the Zyklon B trickle down on us, but I quickly pushed the thought away and breathed in the intoxicating scent of Brittany's hair, reminding myself that I was with her and very far from Auschwitz.

The automobile slowed to a stop once again, and Brittany and I held our breaths when we heard the stern voices of some Nazi soldiers speaking to our driver. With a great amount of panic, we heard them walking around the car and to the trunk. I prayed to God that they wouldn't find us, that Ora and Chaim and Simka's deaths were not in vain. The same words passed through my mind over and over again, as if Simka was there to say them—true love is irreplaceable, true love is irreplaceable, true love is irreplaceable.

The trunk creaked open, and warm sunlight washed the blankets that were concealing us.


	21. An Enigmatic Author

I continued to hold my breath, and could tell that Santana was still holding hers as well. Our hearts beat like one, and it was almost like they were trying to maintain a hurried drumming rhythm in unison. I could feel her trembling in my arms. I knew that she wasn't afraid for her own life—that wasn't like Santana. She was praying that they wouldn't lift the blankets because she didn't want them to find me, not because she didn't want them to find her. Somewhere in her mind, she had a picture of Hans as a little boy or a young man, protective of his mother just as she was protective of me. Sometimes she saw herself in that picture and sometimes she didn't; sometimes she saw how she died to protect my life, sometimes how she allowed herself to be caught so that I could escape. And sometimes, some few and scarce times, she dared to imagine herself standing by us, a wide and joyous smile spread on her lips, gazing at us, her family, the only reasons for her happiness and will to live. She cherished that picture, of the three of us together, and thought of it as an alternate ending to our story when times seemed hopeless, the way they did now.

Sometimes she wondered if our stories had been written before we were even born; if our fates had been decided long ago and would not change despite our countless, desperate efforts. I remembered how she told me once of other storytellers besides Hans Christian Andersen, like the Brothers Grimm, who collected European folklore as well as wrote their own. She confessed that she much preferred Andersen to the Brothers Grimm, because his stories ended with happily-ever-after's and theirs, for the most part, ended tragically. She wondered who had written our stories, if they really had been written and then made into reality. She whispered that our author seemed much more like the Grimms than Andersen—we were given happiness, every time, only for it to be snatched away. Sometimes she dared to hope that our author was in fact like Andersen, and that, like Andersen's characters, our author wrote our hardships so that they could be later rewarded with a happy ending. That was the course of every life, was it not? Every person had his hardships, and some, the lucky ones, were rewarded with a happily-ever-after. And those people, those who had faced and defeated the obstacles that their authors had created, and only then arrived at this place of complete bliss, they're the ones who truly appreciate it, who soak in it and hold onto it desperately in hopes that it'll never slip away. They're the ones who turn into Hans Christian Andersen storytellers, and who write the happy endings of their own characters. How we hoped that our author had received his happy ending, and that consequently, we would also receive ours.

At the moment, it certainly seemed like our author's life had ended tragically, and that he wanted revenge on his author and therefore wrote many other tragic endings to many other lives. The soldiers moved some items that were on top of the blankets that were covering us, and Santana and I lay completely frozen, praying that our body outlines wouldn't be noticed from above the blankets. I couldn't feel what was going on above us because Santana was on top of me, but from the noises, I could guess that they were checking inside the bags for any weapons or grenades. Some part of me knew that they weren't expecting to find the three of us, but I knew that if they did, they would either shoot us on the spot or arrest us. They were ruthless Nazi soldiers. Rolf was one of a kind. They would not be so kind as to let us escape.

My face was damp with silent tears, and I could feel some pressure being applied on us as they patted the thick blankets, as if to feel if there was anything suspicious hidden under them. Santana's breathing hitched, and I closed my eyes and wished for us to disappear, to be transported to another road, or another country, or another world. I knew that they were going to lift the blankets. I knew that they would find us, and all I could think about was how my baby would grow up without a mother and without a loving family.

"We're not hiding any weapons, I assure you," I heard Rolf say, and the patting on Santana's back stopped. I was astonished to hear how calm he sounded—his skilled acting and his ability to keep a clear head had saved our lives more than once already.

There was silence outside the car. I felt anxious beyond words, the same kind of anxiety and terror that I had felt when I discovered that Herr Eberhardt had taken Santana. When everything fell apart and our makeshift paradise was shattered. How naïve we were to believe that it would all last, that we could make a safe escape with Hans and never look back at the world we so hated.

Finally, I heard the voice of who I assumed to be one of the soldiers. "You're German," the man said. My body tensed. A young German man who was not on duty was more than suspicious.

"I am," Rolf replied serenely, and again I was amazed at how relaxed his voice was. He really was so different from the boy I met at the gate on the day I first saw Santana. Time and war had turned him from an innocent teen into a pensive man.

There was another short pause. "Why are you not in uniform, then?" another man asked, and I could sense the skepticism in his voice.

"I've been allowed a short leave," Rolf answered, not one quiver evident in his confident voice. "I was serving in Tschenstochau when a few Jews in the ghetto obtained some firearms and shot at me. I've been instructed to return to Berlin and make a full recovery there, after which I will be reassigned to a local unit."

"I do not see any injuries," one of the soldiers challenged.

"My injuries are in a place I wouldn't care to reveal to you, nor is it your job to know a fellow German's business. I'm afraid I'm expected in Berlin in four days, so your hindrance is quite ill-timed." I felt Santana's silent release of air, and I knew that the same thought was passing through both of our minds—Rolf was a genius.

There were some shuffling noises on the road, and then the sound of a gate creaking open. Someone closed the trunk, and Santana and I were left in complete darkness once again. We didn't dare move or make a sound until the automobile was rolling down the road again, away from the blockade and away from the looming danger.

We cried for a bit as the car bumped up and down on the rough path. I didn't know if they were tears of grief, or of fear, or of relief, or of all three. Whichever it was, it took us a few minutes of firm hugging and untidy kisses and soft avowals of love to calm. When we did finally turn tranquil, we lay in silence, our hands weaved together and our faces buried in each other's hair.

"Santana?" I asked hoarsely after a few minutes of quiet.

I felt her lift herself up on her elbows, although I couldn't see her because it was completely dark in the trunk. She kissed my chin briefly and then hummed a note of question.

"If you could write somebody's life," I began slowly, thinking out my words, "anybody's life, how would you write it?"

She was quiet for a minute or so, and I assumed that she was imagining several story lines in her mind and trying to pick which one to tell. "He'd be a young man, born into a loving family who cherished their every moment with him and dedicated their lives to make his a happy one." She paused, resting her chin on mine and kissing my lips for a short moment. "He'd be a good student, but even if he wasn't, his parents would love him just as much as they would if he were, and they wouldn't be angry with him. He'd have a pleasant and handsome face, and he'd be the kind of boy to ask others of their wellbeing and be genuinely interested in their answer. He'd love sports, and he'd have a lot of caring companions, and maybe even a girlfriend who loves him just as much as he loves her. He'd attend a university, where he'd learn to do what he loves, and he'd be very successful with his work after graduation. He'd marry his girlfriend and have children, and he'd bring his children to his parents' every few afternoons. He'd watch affectionately as his parents played with their grandchildren, remembering how they'd play the same games with him when he was his children's age. He'd be a very, very happy man." She stroked my hair gently.

"And how would his story end?" I asked, knowing that this wasn't just any story she was telling, but the one of our son.

"His parents would die of old age, and he'd bury them side by side. He would be downcast, because he loved his parents dearly, but he'd also be comforted by the knowledge that they were still together in some way. He'd have reached all of his goals in life, and when the time comes for him to part, when he's very old and has grandchildren of his own, he's content, and feels like he's lived his life to the fullest. He would have no regrets about his past actions."

"I like that ending," I said softly.

Santana kissed my lips again. "I will be a Hans Christian Andersen storyteller even if my storyteller was a Grimm."

I smiled sadly, squeezing her hand lightly. "I know."

We were silent until the automobile slowed to a stop once again. Our bodies tensed and we desperately tried to hear what was going on outside, fearing that this was another blockade and that this time we really would be discovered.

We heard footsteps approaching the trunk, and then sunlight crept through the blankets once again. We stayed completely frozen, but the items on top of Santana were lifted off and someone threw the blankets off of us.

The sun was so bright that I couldn't see at first, and I panicked, thinking that we had been discovered. "It's just me," I heard Rolf's voice, and both Santana and I let out tremendous sighs of relief. "I was concerned that you would not be able to breathe."

We nodded, and Rolf offered Santana a hand, helped her out of the trunk, and then proceeded to help me as well. He led us to the backseat, where we lay down again, this time Santana on the bottom and I on the top, and situated ourselves until we were comfortable for the long ride still to come.

It took us the entire day to finally arrive at Liegnitz. We had to hide in the trunk a couple more brief times because of blockades and when we crossed the border into Germany's annexed territories, but none of these times proved as frightening as the first, because the soldiers did not think to search the trunk.

By the time we reached Liegnitz, it had been dark for a couple of hours, and I felt far too exhausted despite the fact that all that I did the entire day was lie down. We were taken to another safe house, and much like Feliks and Halina, this family treated us with much care. I was surprised to see that they had two adolescent children, and wondered if I would have been willing to let my house serve as a safe house when my children's lives were on the line. As important as it was to me to save others' lives, I thought that, if I were in their place, I would've put my children's safety before anyone else's. Which made me all the more thankful to this couple for risking their and their children's lives for us.

Our driver had stayed with us the night, but his job was finished, and he set off the next morning about an hour before our new driver arrived. We thanked our previous driver deeply, for putting his own life in jeopardy and for remaining composed during every blockade. There were so many people that we owed our lives to—it was so incredible that people like the ones who helped us still existed in times like these.

I was not in a good state. I felt guilty for coming apart several times a day, for constantly needing to be cared for by Santana, and for seemingly acting as if I was the only one hurting. I knew very well that Hans's absence hurt Santana just as much as it hurt me, that she was as much a mother to him as I was, but every time that I thought about the fact that I had no clue as to what was happening to our son, I was not able to hold it together, and once again had to be comforted and calmed by Santana. It pained me to know that Santana was holding all of her emotions in so that I could let mine out, and I wished that I was as strong as her, and that I could comfort her for a change, which seemed to happen so rarely.

I was finally beginning to understand why she was angry with me immediately after we escaped. I knew now what it felt like to constantly be in danger, to constantly feel like you're going to be caught and killed. I knew that hopeless feeling, I knew the part of me that believed that I would not survive. And I also knew the part of me that still had hope, that still had dreams and plans for the future. I knew how important that part of me was, and I knew what it was like to hold onto it like you're holding onto your life. I understood now that every one of the prisoners in the camp had that part of them, too, and how that part of them was shattered as they were being led to the gas chambers because of us, because we escaped and left them all to die. I wondered if some of them still had some wild hopes that they would survive the lethal poison, or that at the last minute, an Allied country would invade the camp and save them all from their imminent deaths. I wondered what was more painful—still having pointless hopes or having no hopes at all. Either way, both those with hopes and those without have been killed because of us, and the guilt of that knowledge was almost too great to bear.

After we spent the night at Liegnitz, we were driven to Grünberg, where we spent another night, and after that, we were taken to a small town called Lübben, where we were to stay one last night before our arrival in Berlin. By the time we arrived in Lübben, I had no more tears to cry, and that night, I confessed to Santana my newfound understanding of the anger she felt the day we escaped.

She was quiet while I spoke, her head on the pillows and her arms wrapped around me protectively. She remained silent after I finished. She was staring up at the ceiling as if deep in thought, and I waited for her response, worried that my understanding of the situation was still not quite correct.

"You're right, but only for some people," she said finally, her voice quiet and serene. "Some people, well… Some didn't have that part of them that had hope anymore. Some were waiting for the day that their numbers would be called to the gas chambers. Some deliberately disobeyed the guards so that their lives would be cut short. Some had lost hope so long ago that they became lifeless, sort of functioning bodies without thoughts and without feelings. Some felt like they had nothing to live for anymore, nothing to hope for because they had lost everything and everyone who was dear to them. But some, like you said, never lost hope until the last moment of their lives. Simka was like that."

"And you?" I questioned and looked up at her to see that she was still gazing at the ceiling.

She was quiet for a few moments, considering her words. "I was one of those who had nothing to hope for because I had lost everything. I thought about the possibility of the camp being invaded, of us being saved, but that thought didn't ignite any excitement or even happiness in me. I kept thinking, 'Where am I going to go even if I'm saved? What will I do? _Who_ will I do it with, because dying is better than living alone with the ghosts of your past.' I felt like it was pointless, and I felt like even if I were released, I might have killed myself instead of them killing me. Life isn't worth living if you have nothing to live for."

I pondered her answer as I absentmindedly stroked Santana's neck. I had never felt a feeling such as the one she had just described. Even when times were the most hopeless, I still had my family back home, and I had her.

"But then you appeared," Santana continued, an affectionate smile spreading on her lips. I chuckled warmly. "You were so different than anybody I had ever met before. I remember being amazed at your innocent, childlike enthusiasm, because I hadn't seen anyone act like you did in such a long time. You were so loving, so caring. On the first day we met, I cried because you asked me of my mother, and I was utterly incredulous when you held me like we had known each other for years. I was filthy, starved, and not in the least attractive, but none of those things mattered to you. I should've known then that it was only a matter of time until I would fall in love with you."

I smiled tenderly and placed a gentle kiss on her neck. We were quiet for a little bit, each lost in our own thoughts and nowhere close to sleep. After a few minutes, I said softly, "Do you think we'll have a Hans Christian Andersen ending?"

She licked her lips and bit her bottom one, and I could see that she was on the verge of tears, just as I was. She inhaled deeply, turned her head, kissed me delicately, and said, "I hope so, Britt. I hope so more than anything."

* * *

><p>That morning, we left for Berlin. During the drive, we tried to think of possible ways for us to hide in Berlin, since it was the most dangerous city for us to be in at this time. Rolf listed some names of people he knew, but he was not too confident that any of them would be willing to hide fugitives. Santana hadn't ever lived in Berlin, and therefore could offer no one who would help us. I knew that it was up to me, and I knew very well that there was only one household I could approach with this request. My parents' apartment was too dangerous—that would be the first place they'd look for us, if they hadn't already. A tremor of panic passed through me as I imagined some callous Nazi soldiers interrogating my parents, maybe even threatening to take their lives if they were lying about their knowledge of my whereabouts. So many people had been killed because of me. I desperately prayed to God that my family was not among those people.<p>

We arrived in Berlin after nightfall. I told our driver the address of my parents' closest friends, Nikolaus and Johanna Furst, and he drove us through the dark streets until we arrived at their apartment complex. We thanked him as we had all of our previous drivers, gathered our belongings, and headed up the creaky stairs of the building.

It occurred to me that over a year had passed since I was last here. What if they had moved? What if we were about to knock on a Nazi official's door?

Those thoughts had no place at the moment, because this was truly our only way of remaining hidden in the capital of Nazi Germany. We cautiously walked up four flights of stairs until we were standing in front of the door that I had seen so many times. To my great relief, Nikolaus and Johanna's names were still written above the doorbell, and I rang it, hoping that we weren't waking anyone from their sleep.

There were some noises inside the apartment, and light footsteps approached the door. I took notice in the fact that they were light—Nikolaus and Johanna did not have children of their own, and yet these footsteps could not possibly belong to an adult.

The door swung open to reveal a young girl. For a moment we just stood there and stared at each other, a mix of joy and relief and love apparent in both our eyes. Then she ran to me and wrapped her small arms around me, crying, "Brittany!"

"Anna," I hugged her so tightly I could've broken one of her bones. All of my memories from her early childhood and my adolescence came rushing back, and only at that moment did I realize how much she's been missing to me. "Oh, Anna. How I've missed you."


	22. A Paining Guilt

"Brittany…" Anna said again, her voice stifled by my dress. I held her closer and leaned my head down, smelling the honeysuckle fragrance of her hair and feeling her feeble grasp on my back. She had grown so much in the past year—I hadn't even been able to send her a letter for her ninth birthday. I thought about all of the letters that I had written to her in my journal, and how that journal, which held some of my deepest feelings and darkest secrets, was still in Auschwitz, wide open for anyone who would find it. I felt a twinge of hate at the thought of Herr Eberhardt finding it, and reading of my feelings for Santana and our fairytale dreams for the future. I hoped that he read of how much Hans adored Santana, and how when he was hysterical, only she could calm him, and how when I spoke of her next to him, I called her Mamá so that he'd learn to call her so as he grew as well. Some part of me knew that if Herr Eberhardt had in fact read those journal entries, he would make it impossible for me to see our son ever again. But some part of me still hoped that he had, and that he had read of my feelings for him, and how I thought that he was much less than a man and much more than loathsome. If I was killed in the process of trying to rescue Hans, I wanted Herr Eberhardt to at least know that not for a second did I feel any respect, admiration, or love for him, and not for a second did I regret being unfaithful to our marriage.

Anna said something incoherent and then began to sob quietly. "I thought you were dead…" she whispered, and I felt that twinge of hate again, but this time for myself. If it weren't for this cursed war, if only I had any methods of communication… If I had tried hard enough, I could've written them a letter or two, so they'd know that I was well. Anna, with her nine-year-old mind and wild imagination, must have taken my yearlong silence as a sign that I was killed.

"Who is it, Anna?" I heard Nikolaus's voice call. Hurried footsteps approached the door from inside the apartment, and he and Johanna appeared behind Anna in robes and slippers. They froze, their eyes wide and jumping between Rolf, Santana, and me. They hadn't changed in the past year—Johanna's auburn hair was still as beautiful as I remembered it and Nikolaus's round glasses were still a bit crooked on his nose. We waited in silence, glancing at each other worriedly and hoping that they wouldn't shut their door on us.

"Well, what are you waiting for?" Nikolaus asked finally, in a reprimanding tone. "Do you want the Gestapo at our door? Come in, before anyone sees you!"

We hurried into the apartment, and Johanna quickly closed the door behind us. Anna gripped my hand with both of hers. I knew she was afraid that I would disappear again.

We stood awkwardly in the doorway, not sure whether we should make ourselves at home or wait for Nikolaus and Johanna to invite us into the living room. I had been to this apartment hundreds of times before, it was like a second home to me, and Nikolaus and Johanna like second parents, but everything seemed different—off. Nikolaus and Johanna looked as they had a year ago, but at the same time, they looked much, much older. As if this year had lasted twenty.

Anna was still sobbing quietly, so I hugged her to me again. I turned my head to glance at Santana, who was standing to my left, and found her looking back at me with the tiniest of smiles on her face, a smile that was mostly shown in her eyes—the smile that she always wore when I did something that she loved. Her eyes lowered to Anna, and I knew that she was thinking of how much my sister loved me, and how great of a mother I was to Hans, something that she'd said to me whenever she watched me breast-feed him. I smiled back warmly.

I saw Nikolaus move out of the corner of my eye, so I turned my attention back to him, watching as he crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head lightly. "Is it true what they say?" he demanded.

I glanced back at Santana momentarily before shifting my gaze to him again. "What do they say?" I asked quietly.

Nikolaus turned to Johanna, who bit her lip and looked away, as if she didn't want to be the one who spoke of what "they" said. "They say," he began slowly, "that you escaped from Auschwitz." He turned back to me.

"Then they are correct," I admitted.

"They say that you smuggled a girl out of the labor camp."

"It's not a labor camp," I retorted, furious at the fact that the people of Deutschland themselves did not know the horror of the Nazis' actions. "It's an extermination camp. Thousands of people have died there."

Anna tightened her hold around me, and I realized, a bit too late, that this was not something that I wanted her to hear.

Nikolaus and Johanna looked wholly dumbfounded. I thought about how it was for me to find out that the Nazis were performing mass murder and genocide, what it was like on the first day that I travelled down to the camp and found Santana, starved, bald, and filthy, being beaten and nearly raped by three utterly abhorrent soldiers. If someone had told me before I moved to Auschwitz that thousands, maybe millions, of innocent people were being killed in Nazi camps, I would've been doubtful, much less would I have believed such a terrifying truth.

"Why her?" Nikolaus asked weakly, motioning at Santana. "If thousands of people have died there, why did you save only one, and why her in particular?"

I lowered my eyes and could hear Santana shifting uneasily beside me. Anna leaned back and wiped the tears off of her face, looking up at me curiously with her round blue eyes. I had a feeling that Nikolaus already knew the answer, but in fear that my relationship with Santana would seem repulsive to him, I couldn't bring myself to say the words, _Because I love her_.

"Your father would be most disapproving," Nikolaus said, and I looked up to see him shaking his head again.

I bit my lip. "My father should accept me the way I am after what he put me through," I said quietly, but knew that I was both angry and grateful to my father for giving me away—angry because I was given away to Herr Eberhardt, and grateful because if I hadn't been given away to him, I would've never met Santana.

"Where is he? And my mother?" I asked, glancing at Johanna and then at Nikolaus, who both closed their eyes as if in pain. "Did they go to work at the factory and have you take care of Anna for the day?"

Nikolaus and Johanna didn't answer, but Anna began to sob again. My eyes jumped between the three of them. "Did they go to the market, then?"

Nikolaus sighed deeply, and Johanna's chin shook as if she was willing herself not to cry as well. "They've travelled out of the city?" I continued. "How long have you been watching Anna?"

"Three days," Nikolaus answered, his voice unsteady.

"Then they should be back soon, should they not?" I asked. Anna's crying grew louder.

Nikolaus closed his eyes again, and a few tears began to slide down Johanna's face. I looked down at Anna, my stomach tightening in pain at seeing her sob so miserably.

"Should they not?" I repeated, and raised my gaze to Nikolaus again, panic starting to rise in me like the sun on a cold early morning.

"They're not coming back," Nikolaus said, his voice cracking with the last word.

I stared at him incredulously. "Why?" I stepped forward. Nikolaus didn't answer. "Where did they take them?"

Nikolaus took in a deep breath, and opened his eyes again. "When news of your escape reached Berlin, your parents were taken into interrogation."

I froze. It seemed like the entire apartment was shrinking by the second, closing in all around me, leaving no room to move or think or breathe. I felt lightheaded, like all of the objects in the room were spinning around me at an impossible speed, and I feared that I would fall if I wasn't allowed to lie down. My parents were taken into interrogation. My parents, fine citizens who had done no wrong and helped this rotten state in every which way, had to undergo physical and mental torture so that they'd tell the truth that was not known to them. Barely anyone ever returned from Gestapo interrogations—and those who did were incredibly important officials who were too precious to the government to be killed. My parents were factory workers whose only Nazi pride was their Aryan daughters. They were useless in the eyes of this heartless regime.

I felt weak, and as if reading my mind, Santana enveloped me into her arms, proving once again to be my light in all that was dark. She guided me to the couch and seated me, her arms still wrapped around me and soft whispers of condolence parting her lips. I held her hand, felt the warmness of it and the love and comfort radiating from her, and opened my eyes to look at Nikolaus again. "What happened?" I asked, my voice sounding distant and hardly like it came from me at all.

Nikolaus sat in a recliner across from us, rubbing his knees and looking like he was doing his best not to cry. He and my father were the best of friends since secondary school—this experience must have been nearly as traumatic for him as it was for Anna and me. "A friend of theirs who works closely with the officials phoned them several minutes before the Gestapo arrived, to warn them, but they didn't have time to hide or leave the city. They hid Anna in a cupboard and told her to come to us once the apartment was completely quiet. Last night…" He inhaled shakily, pausing momentarily and taking the time to steady his breathing. I closed my eyes. "The friend who had warned them came to us to make sure that Anna was well, and to let us know that we'd be taking care of her from now on."

I leaned my head into Santana's shoulder and she tightened her arms around me. I wanted to cry, but I found myself unable to—not because I was not mournful, not because I had been angry with my parents for the past year, but because some part of me refused to believe that they were gone. I knew that they were; I'd known that they were from the moment Gestapo interrogations were mentioned, but that part of me, the part that liked to hope even in utterly hopeless situations, it hoped now, too—it hoped for something for which there was no hope at all.

There was another part of me, too, and it pushed aside my hope and my sorrow and my distress. It was guilt. Guilt for my parents' deaths, guilt for Anna's orphanhood, guilt for falling in forbidden love, guilt for feeling no regrets of this love. I felt guilt for the knowledge that if the choices were laid out before me, if I were forced to choose between my parents and Santana, I would've chosen Santana. I felt guilt for knowing that if I had to relive the last year, I would've lived it exactly the same way, only more cautiously. My parents were two of the most important people in my life, that went without saying, but Santana was my other half, the only one with whom this life would have been bearable, and the only one with whom I could imagine raising my son. As much as I wanted Hans to grow up with my parents as his grandparents, as much as I wanted them to take him to the park and buy him candy at the sweets shop and be there at his promotion from primary school, I wanted Santana to be able to do all of these things with him more, and I felt an unimaginable amount of guilt for it.

I opened my eyes to find that everybody in the room, Nikolaus on the recliner and Johanna by the dresser and Rolf beside the door and Santana by my side, was looking at me with worried eyes. I felt dampness on my face, but could not remember crying. My gaze fell on Anna, who was standing by Nikolaus's recliner, and I held out my right hand for her to come sit by me, my left still clutching onto Santana's. Anna seemed hesitant, her eyes jumping between me and Santana, but her hesitance suddenly softened, and I glanced to the left to see that Santana was smiling the same motherly smile that she always smiled at Hans, the one that made my heart skip a beat and just want to sit back and appreciate her capabilities as a mother. Anna made her way to the couch and sat as I snaked my arm around her shoulder and hugged her to me.

I couldn't imagine how terrifying it was to be hidden in that cupboard when our parents were taken away. Knowing Anna, she probably tightened her knees to her body and buried her face in them, slightly rocking back and forth like she always did when she was frightened. I imagined how she must have felt when my parents argued with the Gestapo personnel, when they tried to explain to them over and over again that they hadn't heard from me in a year, that they had no idea what was going on in my life and in Auschwitz or anywhere outside of Berlin for that matter. I wondered if they were told that I had a child. I wondered if they died with the knowledge that they were grandparents, and if they had, I wondered if that knowledge made them a bit happier before their deaths. They must have been so angry with me. They must have died with nothing but hate in their hearts for me, for what I had done to them, and for acting selfish and reckless. I hated myself for bringing that hate to their hearts.

Anna wrapped her arms around my torso and I tightened mine around her, glancing at Santana, whose warm eyes instilled confidence in me and made me feel that it was going to be okay. I turned my gaze back to Nikolaus. "Did they suffer?" I asked quietly, my voice sounding a bit rough from the crying that I couldn't remember to have done.

Nikolaus looked down, shook his head, and shrugged. "I don't know," he said, raising his eyes back to me.

The room was quiet for a few minutes, Anna leaning into me and Santana's hand in mine and Rolf still standing awkwardly by the door. Then Johanna cleared her throat, wiped a few tears off of her face, and said, "It's late. We'd better find you a place to sleep."

I nodded, and Anna leaned back and looked up at me worriedly. "Where will they sleep?" she asked. "They can sleep in my room."

"No," I said, stroking her hair. "The apartment is too small to fit us all, and it would be unsafe for us to stay in plain sight." I turned to Nikolaus and Johanna. "Do you reckon we'd be able to sleep in the storage room downstairs?"

Nikolaus and Johanna both nodded. "I think that's the wisest choice we can make," Nikolaus agreed. "I would not be surprised if they came to search our apartment next."

My eyes widened. What if they did come to search their apartment? What if Nikolaus and Johanna were taken into interrogation just like my parents? What if I would be the reason for their deaths as well? I couldn't let that happen. I couldn't risk their lives and Anna's for myself.

"Don't," Johanna said, and I looked up at her. "I know what you're thinking, and you're not going anywhere. We're choosing to put our lives in jeopardy for you. We would never be able to forgive ourselves if we didn't."

"But, Johanna—"

"Brittany," she cut me off. "Is it true you have a baby?"

I glanced at Santana, who seemed to be of the same mind as Johanna. I nodded.

"Then I think we can agree that your life is of the most importance here," Johanna said firmly.

"It's not—"

"Brittany, you have nowhere to go to. I presume you're in Berlin for a reason, and I'll be quite frank with you—if you don't stay with us, you will be killed. That is all there is to it."

I looked at her and bit my lip. She was right, and I knew it. It came down to this final decision—who was more important, them or Hans? I didn't want to make this decision. I didn't want to have to choose between Anna and my son. But I knew that Anna wouldn't be killed, even if Nikolaus and Johanna were taken into interrogation. She was an Aryan, and Aryans were not expendable in Nazi Germany. The real question, then, was who would I rather save, Johanna and Nikolaus, or Hans? I knew the answer to that question before the question could even complete itself in my mind. It pained me to know it, but I would not give up our baby for anything or anyone.

"Come," Johanna beckoned us. "We'll go down to the storage rooms."

The storage rooms were in the basement, and Nikolaus and Johanna's storage space was divided into two separate rooms, one in which they kept old furniture and the like and the other in which they kept preserved food in case they'd have to hide down there during an air raid. Nikolaus and Rolf moved one of the couches into the smaller room with the food, and Rolf said that he'd sleep in that room because it was closer to the entrance, and he'd be able to hear if there was trouble heading down the basement stairs. Santana and I took the slightly bigger room, in which there was another couch and an old twin bed. Johanna brought us sheets from upstairs, showed us where the emergency toilets were, and bid us good night.

When I returned from the toilets, I found Santana sitting on the couch with her head between her hands. I made my way to the couch and sat down, wrapping my arm around her waist and pulling her to me. "We won't be here for long," I said gently, kissing her temple. "As soon as we have Hans, we'll leave. We won't have to be in this basement for long."

She nodded, and I could see in her eyes that she was pushing back her troubles the way she had done so often lately so that she'd be able to be there for me. She smiled and kissed my lips.

We lay in bed, and after a few minutes, even though I had been trying to hold it back, I began to cry. I cried for my parents, I cried for my sister, I cried for Hans, I cried for Santana. I cried for not being strong enough, for proving again and again to be a burden, although Santana would never agree with that. I cried because I hated crying all the time, and I cried because I couldn't stop.

After Santana had helped me calm a bit, she kissed the tears from my face, held me close to her, the kind of embrace that made me feel safe and at home, and sang a soft Spanish lullaby to me, one that she'd sung to Hans many times. Nothing calmed me like her voice. There was something about it, something angelic, something I could never quite pinpoint, that relaxed every cell in my body. By the time the lullaby was finished, I had stopped crying completely, and I just lay in her arms and focused on how much I loved her smell. I was almost asleep when a last thought appeared in my mind, and I mumbled, "Don't ever leave me."

Santana was quiet, and I opened my eyes, thinking that she had already fallen asleep, but she hadn't. She looked at me with those same warm eyes as before and brushed her fingers through my hair. "There was a man I knew once who hated everyone. He'd make cruel remarks and spit on people, not because they were particularly unkind to him, but just because he could never get along with them. But he had this parrot, whom he loved more than anything else in the world. Gretta, he called her. He took Gretta everywhere with him, and he'd taught her to only say, 'I love you,' to him, and to make snide comments to everybody else. One time she called me a hairless communist."

"How dare she," I said, but couldn't keep the smile off of my face.

Santana chuckled. "People wanted to take her from him. Said she was a bad influence, or that he was, or that they both were to each other, and that he wasn't making any efforts to make friendly contact with humans because of this parrot. But every time someone tried to step near her, this man would nearly chop their heads off. He wouldn't let anyone close to her." She paused and kissed my forehead gently. "My point is, though, that this parrot loved him back just as much as he loved her. I never thought it possible to have an animal as a best friend, but it is. I had never seen a love so strong between anyone. Not romantic love, obviously, but they were attached to each other. I hadn't seen a love so strong until I fell in love myself, and proved my love to be a hundred times stronger than this man and his parrot's."

I smiled, squeezing her hand and placing a delicate kiss on her lips. "I'd no sooner leave you than this man left his parrot," she said softly, her eyes glimmering the way they always did when she was speaking of our love. "Which means never."

I moved my head closer to hers and nuzzled our noses together, kissing her lips again and feeling her smile into the kiss. "I love you," I whispered.

Santana pulled back and looked at me with that same smile again, the one she saved only for me, the one that always let me know that her words were of the most truth. "I love you, too."

* * *

><p>The next morning, Rolf, Santana, and I discussed the means by which we'd find Herr Eberhardt, and through him, Hans. We didn't know where they were staying, and it would have been much too dangerous for us to leave the building to find out. That really only left one option, but this option not only did not seem appealing, but was simply outrageous.<p>

"We can't send Nikolaus and Johanna to do it for us," I said, exasperated. "Don't you think they've done enough already?"

"We don't have any choice, Brittany," Rolf reasoned. "If one of us were to leave in search of facts, and that one of us was caught, then we would all be killed, Nikolaus and Johanna included. This is the only rational solution."

I turned to Santana, seeking her opinion. She looked a bit hesitant, but finally said, "What matters the most is that we rescue Hans, and Nikolaus and Johanna agree with that. I think Rolf's right. This is our only choice."

I leaned back into the couch and looked up at the ceiling. How many more people would risk their lives for us until our luck ran out? And when it did run out, would all of those people be killed? How much more blood will be shed in our trail?

Rolf and Santana looked at me expectantly. Finally, with a grand sigh, I nodded, and Rolf hurried out of the room to fetch them. I leaned my elbows on my knees and put my head between my hands. Santana stroked my back, whispering softly that this was the right choice and that we'd soon have our Hans back.

Rolf returned with Nikolaus after a few minutes. The latter took a seat on the couch and looked at us, raising his eyebrows at our silence. "Well?"

"We'd like to ask a favor," Rolf began cautiously.

"I've gathered that much. What is it?"

Rolf glanced at us momentarily before continuing. "We need information on the whereabouts of Brittany's husband, Richart Eberhardt. We'd find this information ourselves, but—"

"Absolutely not, you would get us all killed," Nikolaus cut him off, and Rolf nodded. "Where can I obtain this information?"

"You said Brittany's parents had a friend who was close with the officials?" Rolf asked.

"Right," Nikolaus nodded. "I could phone him."

"Could you?" I said hopefully.

"I will," Nikolaus stood on his feet and straightened his shirt. "Richart Eberhardt, you say? Of what rank?"

"Gruppenführer," I answered quickly.

Nikolaus nodded, mumbling the name and the rank once more to himself as he left the room. Rolf, Santana, and I glanced at each other uneasily, hoping that this one telephone call wouldn't ruin everything for us.

It took Nikolaus thirty minutes to return to the basement, thirty minutes that were spent with the three of us pacing around the room anxiously and looking at the clock every few seconds. Even though he was my parents' friend, we didn't know if we could trust this man, and we hoped that Nikolaus would find a way to ask for this information without revealing that he knew of our whereabouts.

"Well?" I asked as soon as he reentered the room.

Nikolaus wiped some sweat from his forehead. "He's staying at a hotel in Friedrichshagen. The Dietrich. Apparently, they haven't reassigned him yet, so he's been staying at a hotel."

"Thank you," I said in relief. He nodded.

"Is everything all right?" Santana asked carefully, the first words that she had spoken to Nikolaus.

He raised his eyebrows. "Yes, everything's quite all right. It just was not as easy as I imagined it to be to leave the three of you out of it. I had to think of a false reason for which I needed this information."

"Was he suspecting?" Rolf asked worriedly.

"No, I don't think so," Nikolaus assured us. "Your husband must be staying at a grand suite," he said to me. "The Dietrich is a pompous hotel."

"He must be," I agreed. "Knowing him, he would not want to be in the same room as my son and the nurse that he must have hired for him."

"How will you break into his room?"

Rolf looked at me, then at Santana. "I know how to pick a lock. All we need is his room number and the time of the day in which he is not in his room."

"I imagine he wouldn't be in his room now," Santana began, looking at me for confirmation. "He never liked to stay in the house during the day."

"It would be a risk," Rolf said uneasily.

"A risk that we must take," Santana said. "The longer we wait, the more dangerous it will be."

"We'll need our forged legal documents." Rolf disappeared to the other room for a few moments, and we could hear him searching his bags for the documents. Finally, he returned with them in hand. "Shall we leave now, then?"

"Now's as good a time as any," Santana agreed. I crouched to grab my shoes, but Santana stopped me. "No, Brittany."

"No?" I asked, confused. "I thought you said we were leaving now?"

Santana bit her lip and breathed in deeply. I tried reading the look in her eyes, but I couldn't decipher whether it was worry or grief or doubt. Then I understood. "No," I said. "You're not going without me."

"It's too dangerous—"

"No!" I shrieked. "I will not sit here while you die!"

"Please, Brittany—"

"You promised, Santana," I choked, tears welling in my eyes. "You promised that you'd never leave me."

Santana froze, a look of pain in her eyes that I'd never seen before. I knew that if she left me behind, I would never see her again, and that thought crippled me to the point that I couldn't stand anymore.

"You promised."

* * *

><p><span>Translations<span>

_German_

"Deutschland" - Germany.

"Gestapo" - The secret police of Nazi Germany.

"Gruppenführer" - Major General, rank in the Nazi SS.


	23. The Children of War

Brittany collapsed on the couch, her crying panicked the way it had been the previous times that she thought she'd lost me. She was so fragile, so easily broken. She buried her face into her knees and grasped her dress as if it was me she was holding onto, me she wasn't willing to let go, me she'd die for if that were what it took to keep me alive. I had promised her that I'd never leave her. I promised. But I couldn't keep that promise now.

I didn't know what to hate more—the desire to take her with me or the desire to leave her behind. Leaving her behind would be safer. I knew that, and I told it to myself over and over again, ever since we'd been in hiding. Leaving her behind would be safer. So why was this so difficult to accept now?

I knew why. If I were to leave her behind and never return, if she lost both me and our baby, she would cease to live. Even if she were caught, if she were kept alive to prolong her torment, she wouldn't really be there. Was it worth it to put her through this suffering only to never return and leave her as dead as she would be had she come?

Rolf and Nikolaus stood back and gazed uneasily at us, their eyes jumping between a panic-stricken Brittany and me. I sighed, closed my eyes briefly, and then made my way to the couch, sitting at Brittany's side and taking her hand in mine. With my other hand, I lifted her chin so that she'd look at me. Her eyes blazed blue within the dampness of the tears, and when she looked at me, when she begged me with her gaze to always be at her side, when her hand grasped mine as if she were hanging by it from a cliff, I knew that no matter where we were, what we were to do, and the reasons for our doing so, I could, and would, never leave her.

Somewhere in my peripheral vision, I saw Rolf and Nikolaus shuffle out of the room and close the door after them. I brought my thumb to Brittany's cheek to wipe away her tears, and she closed her eyes and leaned into my open palm. My eyes roamed her face, the golden hair that draped across her eyes, the light freckles that peppered the bridge of her nose, her bottom lip, quivering the way it always had when she fell to pieces and sought comfort. I found myself flying back in time to the first time that I'd seen her, the first time that I'd known her love, the first time that I'd kissed her, and I wondered how a girl like her fell in love with a girl like me. Not because she was Aryan and I was Romani. Not because she was perceived as superior and I as an inhuman creature, not worthy of her presence, let alone her love. I wondered how she fell in love with me because she was so beautiful, so innocent; because she was everything that was good in this miserable world we called home.

I leaned in gently and placed a soft kiss on her forehead, then her nose, then her mouth. "I'm not going to leave you," I whispered tenderly against her lips.

She smiled, a sad smile but a smile that seemed comforted by my words, even if only slightly. "I think I've found my Peter Pan," she said, her eyes opening to the loving gaze she saved only for me.

"Your Peter Pan?" I asked, my brow furrowed in confusion.

"Mhmm," she nodded and her smile grew a bit wider. "The person who saved me from the world I wanted to escape."

I smiled and delicately pushed her hair away from her face. "Are we flying to Neverland, then?"

She nodded again and looked down, her thumb grazing over my hand. "But we need our Tinker Bell to fly," she whispered, almost inaudibly.

I placed a gentle kiss on her head and squeezed her hand. "We'll find him," I said, and lifted her chin to me again. Her eyes were worried, the same overpowering worry and dread that I felt inside. "We'll find him," I said again. I wasn't sure whether I was saying it to reassure Brittany, or to reassure myself.

* * *

><p>"Will we be leaving now?" Rolf asked when I beckoned him and Nikolaus back into the room. "Will Brittany accompany us?" he added quietly as he passed me, glancing at Brittany momentarily before lowering his gaze to me again.<p>

"No and yes," I said, closing the door after Nikolaus had reentered the room. I walked back to the couch and sat once again by Brittany, who had composed herself after I assured her that I wouldn't leave her behind. "Leaving now with no solid plan would be rash—we must prepare one before we act."

"I have to agree," Nikolaus nodded. "You'd surely be caught."

"How do you propose we should find your son?" Rolf asked. "The Dietrich is famous for its Nazi attachments. The place must be crawling with soldiers."

"I don't know," I admitted, leaning back into the couch and sighing deeply. "It would be incredibly difficult."

"What if we disguise ourselves?" Brittany offered. I turned my gaze to her to find her alert and ready for action—two characteristics that I knew she possessed but that I hadn't sensed since our parting with Hans. Hope began to build up inside me. If Brittany could clear her head from the grief of Hans's absence, as she was now, we'd have a much better chance of rescuing him—not just because Brittany would be one more to add to our force, but also because I would feel much more confident and strong if she was confident and strong by my side. No one instilled courage in me like Brittany.

"How do you mean?" Rolf asked, shifting uneasily on the bed.

"I could wear a hat that would cover my hair, and maybe a few extra layers underneath my dress to provide thickness to my body. You could dress in one of Nikolaus's outfits, and maybe borrow a pair of glasses. Santana…" She surveyed me, trying to think of a possible way to disguise our very obvious difference of skin and hair colors. "Does Johanna own any netted veils?" she turned to Nikolaus.

"Of course," he answered immediately.

"Then perhaps she has one dark enough to conceal Santana's face—we can't risk her being recognized as Romani." She looked at me for approval, and I nodded quickly to show it. I couldn't have thought of a better plan myself.

Nikolaus stood, looked at the three of us for a moment, then nodded curtly and made his way out of the room. We turned back to each other. "The disguises will definitely be of help," I said, unconsciously finding Brittany's hand and lacing her fingers through mine. "So we would use our false identities… Maybe we could rent our own room in the hotel? That way we would have as much time as we need to think out our actions, and we'd be able to find his room without needing to come back here for the night. That would only be a hindrance."

"Where would we acquire the money to pay for a room at the Dietrich?" Rolf asked, biting his lip. "We have none."

"I'm positive that my parents left some money with my sister for our use," Brittany said confidently. "It should be enough to rent us a room."

"How will we find Herr Eberhardt's room once we're at the hotel?" I asked. "If the Dietrich is as prestigious as you make it seem, it must be very large."

Rolf and Brittany were quiet, deep in thought. It was out of the question for me to ask of his whereabouts—I'd surely be discovered as Romani. That left Brittany and Rolf to search for his room, but the question was who would be more easily recognized. Quite frankly, I wasn't keen to let Brittany wander around a hotel that was swarming with Nazi dogs. I trusted her completely, but I didn't trust any of them around her. I didn't want to jeopardize Rolf's safety either, but I couldn't see any other way of going about this obstacle.

When I looked at Rolf, I could see he was on the same train of thought. "Nikolaus's clothes wouldn't be an appropriate disguise if I'm to find the room…" he said, scratching the back of his neck.

I nodded in agreement, my thumb stroking Brittany's hand subconsciously. He couldn't dress in his Nazi uniform—he'd be too easily recognized and would never come back alive. But he'd need to disguise himself as someone who wouldn't be suspected when walking around the hotel. That really only left one choice. "You'd need to dress as a hotel employee," I said and shook my head lightly. "But I haven't the slightest idea where you could find Dietrich employee attire."

"Perhaps if I could access the employee-only division, I'd find a uniform there," he said, but didn't look too convinced by his own words. "Though I don't see how I could do that."

"What if…" Brittany began, licking her lips in thought. "If you were asked what your business was in the employee-only division, you could say that you're a Nazi official and are looking for one of the hotel employees. And when they ask for what purpose, you could say that your business must be kept confidential."

"That could work," I agreed. "After all, your alias, by his papers, _is_ a Nazi official."

"Very true," Rolf nodded. "I think we've found our solution, then. Once I'm inside the quarters, I'll search for an employee uniform, quickly change out of Nikolaus's attire, and come out as an employee."

"And then you'd have access to the room-assignment files," I said, inhaling deeply. "If everything goes according to plan, that is."

"I'll be careful," Rolf assured us.

I gazed at him. His eyes, round and olive-green, shone with the confidence of a new plan. I couldn't help but remember Simka, whose eyes always glowed with hope the way Rolf's did now. I wondered what had made him decide to risk his life to save our baby. He had no relation to Hans other than the fact that he knew his mothers. And yet here he was, all armed and prepared to aid us in our son's rescue, when he could be escaping out of the country and leaving us behind to deal with our problems on our own. He was willing to sacrifice himself for us, just as Simka had. And as much as I hated myself for it, I wanted to accept his help, because I knew that we would never be able to rescue Hans without him. I only hoped that there would be some way we could repay him if we all escaped, and if this rescue operation was a success. "Thank you," I said quietly.

Rolf's eyebrows rose. He seemed to be surprised by my words. "There's no need to thank me."

"There is much need," Brittany said, squeezing my hand. "Thank you," she repeated. "For everything."

Rolf's eyebrows rose further, but then his expression slowly melted into a sad smile. "You're welcome," he said, and for a moment I could swear I saw a little boy smiling at us, a bashful smile, but a smile that knew much sorrow. It occurred to me that Rolf must have been no more than a year older than us, which meant that his childhood was snatched from him just as our childhoods were snatched from us. There were those who had been forced to grow into adults, though they were still young. There were those who had forgotten what it was like to be a child, those who longed to push away their childhoods, and those who fought to prove themselves as fully-grown adults. And there were those who still felt the child inside them, who wrapped him in blankets and walls and protected him from the cruelty of the world that they had grown to know. We were like them. We were the children of war.

* * *

><p>We stood and looked at each other, trying to see each other from foreign eyes, to know if we were recognizable. Rolf was wearing one of Nikolaus's suits, not too formal but formal enough to seem like an official, along with a matching brown fedora and a pair of thin, black-rimmed glasses. He was disoriented for a bit when he had just put the glasses on, but after a few minutes, he grew accustomed to seeing through them. Brittany was wearing a simple crimson dress, one of Johanna's, with a large white and red hat that covered most of her hair. I was wearing another one of Johanna's dresses, even simpler than Brittany's, mostly black with some white, and a dark netted veil to cover my face. Nikolaus and Johanna stood back and admired their work. "You'd fool me," Johanna said. Nikolaus nodded in agreement.<p>

Anna gripped Brittany's hand tightly. She looked so much like Brittany. Same eyes, same nose, same lips, same innocence. It was like Brittany had cloned herself. And she now wore the same expression that Brittany had worn so often since our escape—lost, hopeless, hanging on desperately to something that wasn't there. "Are you leaving?" she asked quietly, and I could sense a hint of fear in her voice. "Will you come back?"

Brittany looked at her sister, a pained crease growing between her eyebrows. I could see that she didn't know how to answer her. She wanted to believe that she'd come back. I knew that Brittany wanted to take Anna with us when we escaped from Germany, but we both knew that wish might not be granted. We didn't know if we'd be able to return to Nikolaus and Johanna's apartment after we rescued Hans—to be completely honest, we didn't even know if we would be alive. One wrong move and we'd all be caught. One tap of the nail and the vase shatters into a thousand pieces.

Brittany leaned down and kissed her sister's forehead. "Be brave, Anna, okay?" she said. "Be brave and you'll make it through this."

Anna wiped a tear from her eye and nodded. Brittany straightened her back, looked at me, and sighed deeply. I looked for any signs of fragility, of fear, but there was none. Something had happened when I told Brittany that she had to stay behind. Something settled in her mind and made her as strong-willed as she used to be, before Hans, before we fell in love, when she had rescued me from the gas chambers. I could see that woman again, and I knew that if she was able to rescue me, she'd be able to rescue our son.

"I think it would be best to leave now," Rolf said carefully, and we turned our heads to him. "If we waited any longer, we'd be met with the mass of soldiers who come to the Dietrich to drink alcohol and dance with women at the restaurant. They come in the evening. It's nearly half after four now."

We nodded, and I shifted my gaze to Nikolaus. "Will you be able to drive us?"

"Of course," he said, and pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. "Here," he offered them to Brittany. "This is the money your parents left with Anna."

"You're not giving me all of it, are you?" she asked, concerned, as she took the bills into her hands. "I want to leave some of it with you."

"Brittany," Johanna began. "We've got enough money to take care of Anna. You'll find much more use in it, I assure you."

Brittany looked reluctant, but when she saw that Nikolaus and Johanna weren't going to change their minds, she nodded and looked down at the bills. She pulled a couple of them out and handed them to Rolf. "Here, it's better you pay for the hotel room."

He accepted them and looked expectantly at Nikolaus. The latter nodded curtly and led us out of the basement and to his automobile. Before we left, Anna gave Brittany one last hug goodbye, and then stood back with Johanna, watching as we climbed into the car and drove off down the deserted street.

The drive to Friedrichshagen took about thirty minutes, and was spent with apprehensive glances out the windows. Every time we spotted a Nazi soldier, all three of us turned our heads away, frightened that he might recognize us and send a force after us.

As it happened, we were able to reach the hotel in safety. Before we left the automobile, Nikolaus turned to us, shook Rolf's hand, and bid us good luck. "When you find your baby, you can return to our apartment. Just be sure you don't bring the Gestapo with you." We nodded. _When_, he said. Not _if_.

We exited the old BMW, and against our wishes, Nikolaus insisted he stay until we were inside. With one last wave goodbye, we turned to the grand doors of the hotel, glanced at each other apprehensively, and walked through them.

The key was to be confident. If we were suspicious, if we seemed like we were hiding something, then we were hiding something. Rolf carried our empty suitcases, props in our act, and walked to the front desk with conviction, Brittany by his side and me trailing shortly behind them. The Dietrich lobby was magnificent, though a little too ostentatious for me. A grandiose chandelier dangled from the tall ceiling, its countless crystals shimmering brilliantly under the strong light it provided. The front desk was made of polished wood, and a couple meters behind it was an entrance to a dimly-lit restaurant, by which stood two women who checked the identifications of the diners. Behind the front desk was a balding man in an expensive suit, and at the moment, his eyebrows were raised and his gaze was fixed directly on us.

When Rolf reached the front desk, he shot the man a half-smirk, nodding his head to him as a sign of respect. The man nodded back and said, "Good evening, Herr. How may I be of help?"

"We'd like a room, please," Rolf answered, entirely composed. It was incredible how relaxed he was in such a situation as this, or at least how relaxed he made himself seem.

"A room?" the man repeated, his eyes drifting to Brittany, and then to me. "I trust you have your papers?"

"Of course," Rolf said without a blink and calmly extracted them from his briefcase. With another confident smile and nod of the head, he passed them to the man, who politely accepted them and began to look over them. I prayed to Ángel that our forger was a good one.

There were people conversing in the lobby, and I risked a glance to my right to see who they were. I instantly snapped my head forward, because who I saw were Nazi soldiers, laughing among themselves and calling on the women who passed them. When I looked back at the man, I saw that he was closely examining our documents.

"Eva Vargaz, you say?" he raised his gaze to me. "Of what nationality?"

"Spanish," Rolf said immediately. "She's our maid, we've brought her since we predict our stay here to be somewhat long."

"And she's been cleared by the government?" the man questioned, his eyes directed at me.

"Of course," Rolf replied, and I marveled at how offended he made himself sound. "My wife and I are a distinguished Nazi family, I would never imagine hiring a woman who hadn't been cleared by the government."

The man nodded, his eyes lowering to the papers again. "Oskar and Klara Nacht," he said, nodding his head. "Yes, I think I've heard of you before."

"I wouldn't be surprised if you have," Rolf agreed. "Our deeds have not been small."

"Well, I suppose everything is in order then, Herr Nacht. I apologize for the inconvenience, but it is standard procedure."

"I understand," Rolf said, smiling a kind of smirk that he'd never smile were he not acting, but a kind of smirk that was often seen on faces of Nazi soldiers who thought themselves superior.

Rolf paid the man for a week's stay, which was costly, but he wanted to make his reason for bringing me believable. We were given the keys to a room on the third floor—far below the suites that we believed the monster who had our son to be in.

Everything was unraveling according to plan. That is, until Rolf suddenly pulled us aside and made sure we were facing the wall, but in a way that looked like we were simply deep in conversation.

"What's wrong?" Brittany whispered, her eyes round with horror. "Is _he_ here?"

Rolf nodded silently, and for the first time that night, I saw his confidence waver. "He's behind me," he said quietly.

I risked a glance past Rolf, and felt myself turn cold when I saw the vile man standing only six or seven meters away from us, speaking heatedly with an older Nazi official, who had finely-trimmed gray hair and heartless eyes. The man was smiling the most unfeeling smile I'd ever seen at Herr Eberhardt, who seemed enraged. Whether by the man's smile or by another reason, I couldn't tell.

I wanted to hold onto Brittany's hand, I wanted to feel her warmth and be comforted by her presence, but I knew that doing so would be signing our death warrants. If we were to show any affection toward each other, we would undoubtedly be discovered. Instead, I looked at her face, panicked but attempting to hide it, and took comfort in her features and the beauty that marked each and every one of them.

"I'm not going to take responsibility for her actions!" Herr Eberhardt's voice cut into our broken fantasy like a blade into flesh. "Why don't her parents take responsibility for her actions?"

"Because her parents are dead, Richart," the man said coldly. Brittany closed her eyes. Confirmation of the unknown. "Someone has to take responsibility for her actions."

"Why don't you let her take responsibility for her own actions?" Herr Eberhardt spat, his face crimson with anger.

"Because she's nowhere to be found," the man said, his callous smile faltering.

"Why am I being blamed for her actions, then? Is it my fault she escaped?" Herr Eberhardt's hands rolled into fists, so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

"Precisely," the man replied, his smile forgotten completely and his expression rancorous. "She is _your_ wife, lived in _your _home, and is therefore _your _responsibility."

"I'll kill her," Herr Eberhardt said, breathing heavily. "I swear to the Führer, if I ever get my hands on that woman, I will _kill_ her."

It took every ounce of my willpower not to pull Brittany by her hand and sprint out of there as fast as I could. I didn't doubt for a second that he would carry out this promise the moment he found her. And I didn't doubt for a second that I would die protecting her life if that were to happen.

"So you shall," the man agreed. "Once she's found. She's given a bad name to the entire Aryan community. She _must_ be rid of."

"Then allow me to search for her myself," Herr Eberhardt said, a reluctant pleading note in his voice. "I will find her or die trying."

"No, Richart," the man shook his head. "I'm afraid I can't let you leave the hotel, not when you're facing charges as grave as these. I assure you that you'll be the first to know when she's found. What is your room number?"

"Eight hundred and twelve," Herr Eberhardt replied agitatedly.

"I'll deliver the news myself once we have her," the man patted him on the back, as if they were making a simple business settlement. "And she'll be in your hands. She and whoever we find with her. You'll be free to do whatever you choose with them, as long as it ends with their bodies being sent to the nearest crematorium. Until then, Richart." He shook his hand, though Herr Eberhardt didn't seem so willing, and turned to make his way through the lobby and out the grand doors of the hotel.

Brittany and Rolf, who couldn't see Herr Eberhardt since he was behind them, looked at me for confirmation. I slowly shook my head and turned my gaze back to the monster, who was still standing where the man had left him. He was wearing a black SS uniform with the red swastika band on his left arm. Around his waist was a belt, and on that belt a holster. He had a handgun.

We waited silently, frozen in fear and wide-eyed in terror. Would he recognize us if he saw us? Or would he just continue to go about his business? And if he did recognize us, what would he do? Would he pull out his handgun and shoot us right then and there, or would he drag us to his room so he could have peace while doing whatever it was he wished to do with us?

Before any of us had time to think of an escape plan, he turned toward us and paused. He was looking just past us, at the entrance to the restaurant. I found myself wishing that he wouldn't decide to go there, since that would require walking right past us, and it would take a fool not to notice us from this vicinity.

He began to walk toward us, his eyes still fixed on some point past us. I turned my desperate gaze to Brittany, who seemed to have understood that we were in imminent danger. He was only about four meters away from us now, and closing the distance quickly as he strode to his goal. Three meters… Two meters… One…

We held our breaths, and by some divine power, he walked straight past us without one glance to his left. He was breathing heavily still and so close that I could smell the alcohol on his breath. But he didn't even hesitate, didn't pay any small amount of attention, when he walked past us. _Thank you, Ángel_, I thought.

I couldn't see him anymore, but Rolf's eyes followed him until he entered the restaurant and disappeared from his view. He sighed in relief. "That was close. Too close."

Brittany and I nodded in agreement. "Quickly," I said, urging them toward the stairwell. "Now's our chance, he's out of the room, and we know the room number."

Brittany and Rolf didn't need any convincing. We hurried up the first flight of stairs to the first floor, where Rolf left our empty suitcases, then dashed up the rest to the eighth floor. It turned out that we didn't need the plan we'd prepared after all—whether for better or for worse.

Room 812 was close to the stairwell, and when we arrived at the door, Brittany quickly put her ear to it, trying to hear any sounds that Hans might be making. She shook her head. She couldn't hear anything.

"Will you be able to pick the lock, Rolf?" I whispered, glancing nervously around the hallway, making sure that no one was in sight.

"Yes, just give me a moment," he said, dropped to his knees, and extracted a small wire from his pocket. His stuck the wire into the keyhole and began to move it around, biting his lip in concentration.

"Be quick," Brittany urged, her ear still to the door. She found my hand, and I grasped hers tightly. Hans had to be in there. He had to.

It took Rolf a couple of minutes to pick the lock, but at last, we finally heard the click that announced our entry. Brittany's hand flew to the handle, but before she could open, Rolf stopped her and mouthed, "There might be a nurse in there." He put a finger to his lips, then let go of her hand and let her open the door.

The door opened silently, and the dark living room area of the suite was revealed before us. As far as we could see, there was nobody in there. But we could see a light shine under the door of one of the rooms. Hope filled me once again.

Rolf quietly closed the door behind us, and walked to a lamp to turn it on. Once it was lit, we had a better view of the living room area, and we found, with relief, that we were the only ones in there. If there was a nurse, she must have been in one of the rooms with Hans. If he was even here.

Just on cue, and with our hearts jumping to our throats, we heard Hans's crying from the room with the closed door. Brittany and I dashed to it, only to be pulled back by Rolf. We turned our incredulous eyes to him. Our baby was a few meters away from us. Why was he pulling us back?

"Wait," he mouthed, nodding at the door. There was no noise from inside the room except for Hans's crying. If there was a nurse in there with him, she would've already come to calm him. We waited a few more moments until Brittany couldn't wait anymore, and she yanked her arm free and closed the small distance between herself and the door.

I didn't remember running after her and into the room. All that I knew was that Hans was here, with us, in safety. Brittany lifted him from the crib and into her arms, smiling widely, her breathing staggered and happy tears streaming down her face. I embraced him from the other side, and we looked down together at our baby, our son, our life, our soul. He calmed immediately when he felt safe again, in the only place where he could truly feel safe—with his mothers. He looked up at us with large blue eyes, his hands grabbing the air above him, cooing softly as we peppered kisses along his arms and face. It seemed like everything was going to be okay at that moment; like all of our problems had vanished and we were home, or wherever it was we could call home. It was perfect. We felt invulnerable. Until we heard sounds from the suite's front door.

All three of us snapped our heads toward the front door, frozen and petrified. A key was being twisted in the keyhole. At the last second, Rolf closed the room door. We heard the front door open.

We couldn't know who had entered the suite. Could Herr Eberhardt have returned already, after only a quarter of an hour? Was it a maid who came to clean the room? Was it some Nazi official? Maybe the nurse who was caring for Hans?

I knew who it was. Just like I had known the time when he almost found me wandering outside our house in Auschwitz, just like the time he came storming down the basement stairs. Like a dream, I remembered my mother saying to me once, when I was a child, _An old belief tells that everything that can go wrong will go wrong. It's a horrible fact, but it is a fact nonetheless._

Well, everything that could go wrong was going wrong now. Herr Eberhardt had found us. And just on cue, once again, feeling fear, Hans began to cry.

Heavy footsteps confirmed that it was indeed Herr Eberhardt. He was walking toward the room, and we had no way of escape. I looked around the room. There was a window, but we were on the eighth floor. We were trapped.

The door flung open. At first he seemed surprised, his eyes round with astonishment and his eyebrows raised so high that creases showed in his forehead. We stood there for a couple moments, trembling in fear while he took the time to realize what was happening. He was blocking the only way out of this room. Escape was not an option.

Finally, he seemed to have found his words. "Put down the baby," he said slowly, venom coating every word.

Both Brittany and I instinctively held Hans, who was still crying, closer to us. Rolf moved to stand in front of us.

Herr Eberhardt reached for his gun.

What happened after was so chaotic that I couldn't tell who was who, who was hurt, and who was the one shooting. Gunshots went off, I felt Hans being pulled out of my arms, and Herr Eberhardt's strong hands were locked around my neck. I fell backwards and he fell on top of me, knocking what little air I had left in me out. I clawed at his hands, I tried to kick him, but it was useless. I couldn't breathe.

And then he stopped. A gunshot rang through the room and his body fell on top of mine. Hans was screaming at the top of his lungs. A warm liquid began to soak through my clothes, and I didn't have to think much to know that it was blood.

Someone shoved his body off of me, and I sat up, coughing and gasping for air. My vision went black for a few moments, but once it returned, I looked around the room in panic, mortified that I would see Brittany's dead body on the floor.

"I'm okay," I heard a whisper by my ear and one of her arms wrapped around me. I could see the gun dangling from her other hand. She dropped it and drew me into a hug. "Are you okay?"

I nodded, my face damp from tears I didn't know I had shed. "Where's Hans?" I asked quickly.

"I have him," I heard Rolf say behind me. "He's fine."

I drew out of the hug and wiped my eyes with the back of my hand, looking down at the body of the man I so hated. Blood pooled on the floor around his chest, and a great weight was lifted off of mine. He was dead. There was one less person who wanted us killed. One less person we'd have to hide from.

Brittany rose to her feet and walked to Rolf, holding out her arms for Hans and enveloping him tightly. I was still breathing heavily, but I rose to my feet as well, turning to them. I couldn't believe that we were all alive, and that he was dead. Maybe not everything that could go wrong did go wrong.

"We have to leave. Now." Rolf urged us out of the suite and to the hallway. "It won't be long till someone comes to investigate the gunshots."

Hans had somewhat quieted down, and we hurried down the hall to the stairwell, where we descended as quickly as we could without making too much noise or arousing fear in Hans again. I thanked my luck for having worn a dress that was mostly black—the blood that soaked through my clothes wasn't too obvious, and I hoped that no one would notice it.

When we arrived at the bottom of the staircase, we took a few moments to compose ourselves, straightening out our clothes and hair, making sure that everything was in place, before walking into the lobby.

We were about halfway across the lobby when a couple of soldiers ran past us. They must have been sent up to the eighth floor to search for the reason for the gunshots. In any case, they didn't question us, so we continued to walk as calmly as we could through the lobby and out the doors into the warm evening air.

We decided that walking back to the apartment would be too risky, because it wouldn't be long until they found out that Hans was gone and that Herr Eberhardt was dead, so we walked as far as we could before we hailed a taxicab. The driver wasn't interested in who we were, to our great relief. We told him an address that was a few blocks from the apartment and spent the rest of the ride in silence, each lost in our own thoughts, and Brittany and I gazing down at Hans, who once again felt safe and was cooing softly in Brittany's arms.

Brittany turned her head to me, and I looked up at her to find tears glistening in her eyes and a smile so wide it could've lit the sun spread on her lips. I felt that same happiness surge inside me. We were alive. We were alive, we had Hans, and we were free.

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><p>We paid the driver, said our thanks, and left the taxicab. We had only a few blocks to walk, and we did so with much more ease, now that we were in a completely different part of the city and much safer, out of the Nazis' firm grip. We walked quietly, our footsteps the only sounds in the street, until I raised the obvious question. "Where will we go now?" I said carefully. "We can't stay in Germany."<p>

Brittany bit her lip, shrugging delicately, her eyes uncertain. I looked at Rolf. "You know where I've always wished to go?" he asked, a small smile creeping onto his lips. I raised my eyebrows in question.

"America," he said, grinning, and continued to walk down the street to our safety.


	24. Epilogue: In the World of Hans

**A/N: So we've come to an end. Thank you to everyone who stuck with this fic till the end, and thank you to everyone who reviewed, favorited, and followed. I'd also like to thank ohvalerievalerie, thequirkymind, and youknowexactlywhat from Tumblr, who've made/drawn some really amazing posters and fan art for this fic. Nothing compares to the feeling of seeing my work portrayed visually, and so wonderfully by such talented people. Thank you. **

**I hope you've enjoyed reading this fic as much as I've enjoyed writing it. Here's one last chapter. :)**

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><p><span>Epilogue: In the World of Hans<span>

_Twenty Years Later_

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><p>I squint my eyes at the ceiling of the lecture hall, trying to remember Hooke's law and what it means. Hooke… I have a feeling that it has something to do with elasticity… Oh! The law of springs! Force is directly proportional to displacement. I lower my gaze to my exam and quickly write out what I remember from the assigned readings.<p>

When I'm finished, I carefully check all of the answers I wrote for the questions, making sure that I made no mistakes. Once I'm satisfied, I gather my belongings and make my way down to the front of the lecture hall, where I hand my exam to my professor, Dr. Miller, with a small smile. He smiles back widely, accepts my exam, and says, "Thank you, Mr. Pierce. Have a pleasant break."

I nod in thanks. I was never much for physics, but Dr. Miller is pretty hip, and he likes me because I put a lot of effort into my work. With one last glance at my peers, I walk through the aisle to the back of the lecture hall and out the door to the warm, sunlit UCLA campus. Just outside the door, one of my good friends Billy is waiting for me, his lips stretched in a lopsided smirk and his fingers drumming a rhythm on his jeans. "How'd it go, man?" he asks, patting me on the back. "D'you fail?"

"I hope not," I smirk back, joining Billy as he begins to walk toward our dormitories. "Why?" I turn to him. "Did you?"

"Of course," he laughs, shaking his head. "Don't I always?"

"Nah," I shove him lightly. "Today's your lucky day, Billy, I can feel it."

Billy continues to shake his head, looking up at the sky with the dreamy expression he wears very often. "Say," he turns his head to me, "how's Tammy? You goin' steady or what?"

I shoot him a worried glance, but I can see that he's not joking around. "Yeah," I say finally, my eyes fixed on the trees that adorn the path. "Why?" I look at him uneasily. "You don't like her, do you?"

"No, man, she's all yours," he quickly assures me. "I've actually got my eyes on another skirt."

"Yeah?" I raise my eyebrows. "Who's that?"

"I'll give you a hint. Her name has four letters, starts with an A and ends with an A—"

"If you're talking about my aunt Anna again, you can forget about it," I shake my head and smile at his useless attempts to win her heart. "She's not interested in someone so young, and the last time you tried to make a move on her, my uncle Rolf almost sawed your fingers off."

"A man can dream," he says with a grand sigh, and I laugh, shaking my head again. You don't know stubborn till you've met Billy Hanwell.

It takes us around twenty minutes to reach the dormitories, and when we do, Billy grabs my arm and turns me to him. "I guess this is where we say our goodbyes, my fine man," he holds my hand in a handshake. "Have a blast on break, yeah? And put in a good word for me with Anna, will you?"

"Sure, but she won't go for it," I say with a playful smirk. Billy smirks back, pats me on the back, and turns away, holding his arms out and shouting to the empty street the American anthem, which he likes to do when he's mocking our lifestyle. I laugh and make my way through the building doors into the narrow hall of the dormitories.

When I get to my room, I see that a note has been taped on the door. I pull it off, drawing it near for closer examination.

_Hans,_

_I didn't have the chance to say goodbye, since we were both busy with exams. Have a nice break. See you sometime._

_Love,_

_Tammy_

I smile at the note. It's simple, but I know that Tammy means much more through these words than is apparent to the naked eye. I thank my luck again for finding a girl like her. She's sweet, kind, and she cares about me. That's all I need. And my mothers like her. That's the most important thing. I wanted my mothers to like her.

I enter the room and close the door after me. My roommate, Jeffrey, had moved out yesterday, so I have the whole room to myself. I drop my pencil and eraser on the dresser and look at myself in the mirror that's pinned to the wall above it. Every time I look at myself, I always have Mama's voice running through my head—_You look just like Mom. Same curious blue eyes, same long, elegant nose, same precious freckles, same mischievous smile. My two little angels._

I smile at the memory. I love it when she calls Mom and me her angels, though I'd never admit it to any of my friends. She's right, like Mama always is. I do look exactly like Mom. It's the greatest compliment anyone could ever give me, really—when Mama says I look like Mom and when Mom says I have Mama's personality. Mom always says I'm protective the way Mama always is. She says I consider the people I love to be my first priority, just as Mama always does. I'm proud of being like them, and I'm proud of being their son. I just wish other people wouldn't glare so obviously at us when we act too much like a family in public.

I push my loose blond hair away from my face, turn to my closet, and begin to pack. It doesn't take long since I don't have a load of belongings, and when I'm done, I lift my suitcases in both hands and take one last look at the room that served as my home for the past academic year. As much as I liked it here, living with friends and studying new fields, I missed home a whole lot, and it would be an understatement to say that I'm happy to go home now.

I leave the room, lock the door behind me, and walk to the dormitory's parking lot, where I lug my suitcases into the trunk of my car—not your regular open pipes, just a small machine with four wheels that can drive—and get into the driver's seat. I turn the radio on KFRC, back out of my parking space, and let myself get lost in thought, the way I always do on the long drives back home.

On this particular day, my mind decides to take me back to my childhood. The first thing I can remember from my childhood is my third birthday. I don't remember what had happened, I just remember a picture. I was sitting in Mom's lap, her strong arms wrapped around me, and there was a cake in front of me. Mama was lighting the candles with a match, a loving grin spread on her face, and she was looking at me the way she always did when she was happy—her eyes, though dark, seemed full of light, and I could find truth in what she'd always told me: _Nothing, Hans, nothing makes me happy the way you and Mom do._

I remember asking Mom how it was that I had two mothers when everybody else had one mother and one father. She was quiet after I'd asked, and I couldn't understand it at the time, but looking back, I know that she was wondering how she should tell me something that's so hard to understand for so many people—that two women fell in love, and that two women were raising their son together. There had been times when people around us went ape. They shouted at Mom and Mama that their practices were acts of blatant sacrilege, that dyke lust, as they called it, was against God's will, that they deserve to burn in hell for their sins. Some said that they should go back to where they came from, and be thrown into the crematorium the way all faggots and dykes were, and deserved to be. It wasn't natural, they claimed. It was disgusting. My mothers tried to be a bit more discreet as the threats got worse, but in the end, we were a family, and there was no hiding that.

Sometimes, I tried to look at them from someone else's eyes. I tried to search for the source of hate. But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn't find anything wrong that they'd done. I couldn't see anything disgusting about their relationship, and I couldn't understand why so many people said I should be removed from our home when my mothers had raised me so well, and given me much more love than any of the other kids' parents had. Other kids would come to school with bruises on their arms, saying, "My old man beat me with a belt last night," or, "My old lady gave me a good poundin' with her rolling pin." My mothers had never, and would never, raise a hand against me. As a child and as an adult, I completely trusted them both—something that isn't often seen in our times. Which led me again and again to the same question: Why were my mothers so hated when all they'd done was good?

_The Nazi and the gypsy, _people called them. Mom and Mama paid no attention, but I knew that deep down, they were hurting. Mom didn't like to be called a Nazi because she wasn't one, and never would be one, and Mama didn't like to be called a gypsy because it was derogatory. Which led me to question a lot as a child why exactly I had two German mothers, one of whom by all definitions was an Aryan and the other who identified as Romani.

They never told me why. They never told me how they'd met, or where, or when. They never spoke of my father. I didn't think that they were purposely hiding these things from me. I thought it was maybe too painful to discuss, and maybe they didn't think me mature enough to understand. After a while, I stopped asking. I knew that they'd tell me once they felt the time was right.

I used to ask Mama a lot about the tattoo on her left arm. Six numbers. 011287. She always evaded the questions, and I knew that it had something to do with her past, which she and Mom never discussed with me. But it didn't take long for me to find out. When I was eleven, I learned in school about Nazi Germany, and World War II, and the Holocaust. When I found out that prisoners were branded with numbers in concentration camps, numbers that looked exactly like what Mama had on her arm, I panicked. I ran home that day, straight into Mama's arms, and I cried for a long time because I finally knew the horrors that she went through. She held me until I calmed, and when I did, she explained to me that the past was behind her, and as much as her memories of that time were painful, her happiness now overpowered all of her sorrows. She told me that as long as she had me and Mom, she didn't care what had happened to her before, because we were her life, and that was all she cared about.

I knew she wasn't lying. Anyone who isn't clouded by homophobic views can see how in love my mothers are. Sometimes they just look into each other's eyes, and I can swear they're communicating without speaking. They'd look for a long time, and then Mom would smile, and Mama would laugh. It always feels like they're grateful for every day they spend together, every day they were able to raise me as their son, like there was once a possibility that things wouldn't turn out the way they did. They almost never fight, and when they do, they fight quietly, and it's always because one is trying to protect the other's wellbeing. They feel that life is too precious to spend in quarrels. So they make compromises, give way for the other, anything they have to do to keep each other happy, and to keep me happy.

It takes me around three hours to reach home. When I do, I park my car on the driveway, get my luggage, and walk excitedly toward our baby-blue front door. Mama always says the door matches my and Mom's eye color, which is why she wanted this house. Mom secretly tells me that Mama picks everything to be baby blue, and that when I was a baby, she refused to dress me in anything other than this color. "Baby blue matches his eyes," Mom said that she'd said. "It's the most beautiful color there is. We must cherish it."

I walk through the front door, but the house is quiet. I put down the suitcases and climb up the stairs two by two to see if they're sleeping in their room. They're not. I knit my eyebrows and look around. They must be home, it's after four. I climb down the stairs and make my way to the kitchen, which, I find, is also empty. I turn and look out the glass door to our yard. My mouth stretches into a grin. There they are.

They're sitting on the lawn swing, which faces away from the door, and Mom's head is leaning on Mama's shoulder. Mama's arm is wrapped around Mom's back, and she's slowly stroking Mom's hair the way Mom loves. I'm torn between wanting to run to them and wanting to stand here and watch them. They seem so peaceful, so tranquil, and it makes me happy to see them that way.

After a few moments of standing there, watching them, my desire to go to them wins. I slowly open the glass door, and they both instantly turn to me, beaming joyously. I smile back and make my way around the swing to hug them. They pull me down between them and embrace me in a tight hug. "Oh, Hans," Mom sighs. "How we've missed you."

"I missed you, too," I say, my voice muffled by their shirts. I pull back and smile again when I see that they're still grinning widely.

"How was the drive?" Mama asks, squeezing my hand.

"A drag, as usual," I say as I sit down at her side. "Not too bad, I guess."

"And your exams?" Mom asks, leaning forward a bit so that she can see me across Mama.

"They were all right. Don't worry so much," I tease, smirking.

"We aren't worried," Mom laughs, slipping her hand into Mama's. "Not when it's you we're speaking of."

They continue to look at me with adoring eyes, and Mama gently pushes my hair away from my face. "So handsome," she says, still smiling.

I laugh bashfully and lean down to place my head on Mama's shoulder. Mama snakes her arm around me, pulling me into her and kissing the top of my head. I close my eyes and think that I could stay here, like this, for a very long time and still be content.

We're quiet for a couple minutes, the squeaks of the swing the only sounds in our yard. I look down at Mama's hand and see that it's still in Mom's. I thank God for bringing me two mothers who are so in love, and who love me so much.

After a few more minutes of silence, I gaze up at Mama. She looks down at me and smiles, her eyebrows raised in question. "Tell me a story," I say, feeling like the little boy I was fifteen years ago, but not minding so much because I know that my mothers will love me just the same whether I act like the man I am or not.

Mama chuckles and brushes her fingers through my hair. "You're just like your mom," she says affectionately, squeezing Mom's hand in hers. She's quiet for a bit, and I look up to see her lost in reverie while Mom gazes at her with the half-mischievous half-adoring smirk she saves only for her. "I think I know which story to tell," Mama says, a small smile creeping onto her lips.

"Does it have a happily-ever-after?" I ask. Mom looks at Mama curiously, and I know what Mama means when she says that I'm just like Mom, because she's as excited as I am to hear this story and learn of its ending.

Mama looks down, lost in thought, but her smile grows larger. "Oh yes," she says finally, and raises her eyes to me again. "There's no happier happily-ever-after than the one of this story."

"Good." I nestle into Mama's shoulder again. "So what does the story tell?"

Mama's quiet again for a few moments, and I peek up to see her looking longingly into Mom's eyes with the tiniest of smiles on her face. She lifts Mom's hand to her mouth, kisses it gently, and says, "This is the story of how I fell in love with your mom."

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><p>The End<p> 


End file.
